


After the End

by tellthemstories



Series: Waking up to ash and dust [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Dictatorships, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension - Exes, Violence typical to a dystopian fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-25
Updated: 2014-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-22 14:42:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 74,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2511416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tellthemstories/pseuds/tellthemstories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire’s life goes to hell at 5pm on a Saturday evening.</p><p>Which is actually kind of ironic, really, seeing as how the rest of the world went to hell almost seven years earlier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic wouldn't exist without my wonderful, amazingly talented artist [jaimesstump](http://jaimesstump.tumblr.com/post/100940275576/grantaires-life-goes-to-hell-at-5pm-on-a-saturday) whose art work got me through several writing blocks and pitfalls. 
> 
> A huge thank you to [Samyazaz](http://samyazaz.tumblr.com/), for helping me to plot this whole thing out in the first place, [yallaintright](http://arcoiriseglitter.tumblr.com/), for an incredible amount of editing and plot tweaking, and [defractum](http://defractum.tumblr.com/) for sitting in various coffee shops with me whilst I wrote it, then editing it much later whilst writing her own.
> 
> The idea for this fic came from [this](http://fratschi.tumblr.com/post/87310979453/lightning-st0rm-to-survive-it-is-often) wonderful photoshoot, with permission.

Grantaire’s life goes to hell at 5pm on a Saturday evening.

Which is actually kind of ironic, really, seeing as how the rest of the world went to hell almost seven years earlier.

It starts with a boy. Well, fine, _technically_ he’s a man. And it doesn’t start with him at all. It starts with a girl. Éponine.

Okay, so, he’s in a bar.

He’s in a bar at the end of the world and Marius is dying in his arms. “Fuck, fuck, shitting fuck,” Grantaire swears, and practically falls through the door to the Musain. It’s a testament to how world-weary - or, quite frankly, emotionally-stunted - the patrons of the Musain are, that they don’t even blink at the interruption.

The only person who shows any emotion at all is Éponine, who drops the mug she’s currently cleaning with a sharp inhale. It shatters when it lands on the floor, ceramic shards scattering across the ground. Grantaire’s boots crunch on them as he drags Marius further into the room, hands slippery with his blood.

“What the hell happened?” Éponine demands, coming around the bar with a death-glare and shaking hands, “You were supposed to keep him safe.”

“Yeah, well, tell that to him,” Grantaire snaps back, struggling to keep Marius upright. “It’s not my fault he went to the markets alone and tried to talk to people about how the government are dicks.”

“The government _are_ dicks,” Éponine replies, finally helping him with the load by wrapping an arm around Marius’s waist. Between them they manage to half-drag and half-carry him into the back room. Marius must look terrible; there’s no way Éponine would say something so risky in a public place if her thoughts weren’t focused entirely elsewhere.

Éponine hits the light switch just inside the back room with her elbow, a dull glow sparking to life from the overhead beam and washing everything in a sickly yellow glow. Marius moans something unintelligible.

“But it’s still your fault,” Éponine picks up the thread of their conversation as she helps him pull Marius back onto the crates. “You’re the one who refuses to talk to him about _them_ , when you know that’s all he wants to know about. If you’d just tell him what you know, maybe let him meet—”

“For the last time Éponine, _no_ ,” Grantaire growls, “He’s not getting involved with _them_. I thought you wanted him to live, not throw his life away for some stupid cause.”

The fact that Éponine wants him to live isn’t up for dispute; you can tell what she wants whenever she looks at Marius. It’s written all over her face. Watching her watch Marius hurts, and Grantaire doesn’t know what’s worse: the fact she looks at him like that, or that Marius never notices.

As Éponine grabs rags and some precious items of medication from their meagre supplies, Grantaire looks down at Marius’s slumped body. His fingers itch at his sides, wanting to do _something_. The government’s had a monopoly on actual medical care for years now, one of their many ways of trying to control the population after what happened. Éponine’s supplies are years old and mostly out-of-date; Grantaire wishes he'd stolen more for her, or bartered for them at the black market over the last few months.

A voice at the back of his mind wonders if they’ll even work. He pushes the thought away forcefully, rolling his sleeves up his elbows, then peels Marius’s shirt back away from the wound in his side. He has to fight back the bile that rises in his throat as he sees the wound. God, how much blood can a person lose and still be alive?

“Bloody hell,” curses Éponine, as if reading his mind. She looks ashen; her hands are still shaking. Belatedly, Grantaire realises his own are doing the same.

“We need alcohol,” he says abruptly, and ducks back out to the bar. He pauses just outside the room, taking a breath to try and clear his mind. He’s seen blood before, plenty of it, but this feels different, somehow.

Gavroche is seeing to the customers, surreptitiously pocketing what he can as his parents no doubt do exactly the same, back at the market. Grantaire is suddenly, intensely glad they’re not here. If they saw Marius they would try to take the clothes from his very back, wouldn’t hesitate to rob him blind as he bled out across the floor.

Not that the Thenardiers have any idea that Marius is here, or that he exists at all. One of the many reasons Éponine had pawned him off on Grantaire, just over a month ago.

Grantaire shakes away the memory, takes a breath to steel his nerves, and begins searching the bar for something decent and strong enough. He finds a dark amber liquid, unscrews the cap of the bottle and takes a swig. It’s some weird concoction, not quite whiskey, not quite lighter fluid, but somewhere in between. It burns his throat as it goes down, chasing the acidic aftertaste of bile. He takes another swig and grabs a bottle of watered-down wine on his way back in.

Éponine has most of the blood cleaned from Marius’s side, but it’s still coming fast. There’s a rapidly-growing pool on the ground; each drop lingers for a second on the edge of the crate, thick and dark. She doesn’t look up as Grantaire comes in, just holds out a hand for the bottle. He gives her the whiskey and takes a swig of the wine for himself, pretends he doesn’t see the pointed look that she sends him.

She splashes the alcohol over the wound ruthlessly, Marius lets out a cry of pain and arches up from the crates, his pale body twisting away from her. Grantaire sets the wine down and grabs hold of Marius’s shoulders, trying to hold him down as Éponine says, “You didn’t tell me it was this bad, Christ, Grantaire, what happened?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” he admits, the wine mixing with guilt in his stomach, unfamiliar and unwelcome. “I left him for, like, ten minutes. I told him to stay put, but you know Marius, he never listens.” Grantaire knew he didn’t live up to the idea Marius had of ‘the people’, the downtrodden slum-dwellers who wanted a revolution; he was too drunk, too bitter, too jaded. But sometimes he did manage to get through to him; sometimes Marius acknowledged that he knew what he was talking about.

Not this time.

“I didn’t see the knife, the guy that did it got away before I could do anything. He’ll be alright though, right?” Grantaire’s voice catches and he coughs, annoyed. He doesn’t care, he _doesn’t_. Marius is Éponine’s responsibility, she’s the one who wants to keep him alive, who decided he needed protecting, who looks at him like he’s the most precious thing in the world.

“I don’t know, hold him _still_ ,” she orders through gritted teeth, and pulls out a needle and thread from the medical supplies. “I’m going to try and fix it.”

Most people would cry and fret if their loved-one was this hurt. Éponine is all practicality, stripped of emotions. She reaches for the whiskey again, but instead of pouring more over Marius, she takes a long swig. Then she knots her hair behind her head and starts pulling Marius back together.

Grantaire’s not sure how long she works for, how long he holds Marius down. The wine disappears down his throat quickly, and when his hands start to shake again, so does the whiskey. At some point Marius’s hand comes to rest on his arm, grips tightly and then releases, clammy and hot all at once. Marius’s breath hitches, his pulse skittering when Grantaire presses fingers to his neck.

“Ow,” is all he says, when Éponine snaps the string off on her teeth.

Grantaire smiles despite himself and replies, “Yeah, ow.”

From the looks of it there will be a huge scar across Marius's abdomen when the wound heals, but Grantaire has enough scars of his own to know that it’s better than having your insides splashed out across the ground. He touches his latest one in sympathy, curving from his collarbone around his neck, ending just under his ear.

Physical scars are so much easier to deal with than the ones left inside.

Éponine, when Grantaire looks across at her, is still worried; her expression halts the rising relief in his gut. Her hands are stained and tacky with blood as she looks down at Marius, biting her bottom lip. Grantaire wants to reach out to her, say something reassuring, but he’s never been good with that sort of thing.

He looks around for more alcohol instead - that's always good, it will make her forget - but then Éponine rounds on him without warning, slamming her hands into fists against his chest. “You bastard, this is all your fault!”

He takes a step back in surprise, reaches out for her flailing arms with his own, trying in vain to grab them as she keeps hitting him. “Éponine — Éponine _stop_ — stop! Ow, fuck!”

“Why didn’t you teach him how to defend himself?” Her words lash out like a whip, make him flinch. “He’s defenceless out there! You could have given him a weapon, anything, but no, you had to keep yourself apart and refuse to do anything, act like he wasn’t even there half the time—”

The guilt claws at Grantaire’s stomach; he battles it down as he dodges another of her blows, trying to keep her hands away from his throat. “It’s not my job to teach him how to defend himself. He’s the idiot who came from the city alone without a weapon. If he dies it’s no one’s fault but his—”

“Take some fucking responsibility!” Éponine yells at him, with one last shove at his shoulders, “Stop holding yourself away from everything! He looks up to you, he thinks the world of you, and you just — you treat him like he’s not even there and—”

Her words cut off abruptly, out of either frustration or anger, he can’t tell. She takes a sharp breath and her nostrils flare. Her hands clench into fists against his shoulders, then relax. “You can’t be alone forever, Grantaire,” she says, calmer, “People aren’t meant to be alone. We’re not built that way.”

She looks across at Marius again, her features softening in that painfully familiar way, and Grantaire thinks she's horribly naive. Being alone is the only way to keep yourself safe, the only way to avoid pain like this.

Éponine turns back to him, hard as ice. “I need to watch the bar and you need to keep an eye on Marius. He should come around in a few hours, he’ll need someone there to give him water and make sure he doesn’t pull out his stitches.”

Grantaire can do that much, at least. Water and a few hours. He hears Éponine turn and go back to the bar as he moves over to sit on one of the crates next to Marius. The blood has stopped dripping, making him painfully aware of the silence of the room and his own breathing. Marius's chest stutters with each rise and fall, his skin is pale like ice.

Grantaire thinks of the man who stabbed Marius, the way his whole world had narrowed down in that moment and the horror of carrying him all the way back here thinking _he's not going to make it he's not he's not._

And all because Marius had been asking people about the Amis.

Not for the first time, Grantaire wonders how he got himself into this position.

\- - - - -

Marius doesn’t come around in a few hours. Or even the next day.

His skin gets even paler, his breathing never evens out. The wound in his side stays angry and dark and weeping.

Éponine coerces one of her father’s cronies, Montparnasse, to help them get Marius back to the rooms he’s been staying in at Grantaire’s, but even the brief blast of air as they drag him outside under the bruise-purple sky doesn’t seem to help.

Marius stirs only minimally when they put him down on the bed, opens his eyes a little to say, “Did we win?” making something painful lodge itself in Grantaire’s chest.

Grantaire forces as smile as he replies, “Yeah, yeah, we did,” though the smile slips straight off his face when Marius’s eyes close again.

It's not a natural reaction to a knife in the gut; Grantaire knows this. He's been stabbed and shot at enough times in the years since the bombs dropped to know what it feels like to _really_ face his death (“ _Grantaire no, please, you can't leave me you can't—_ ”) but still he's in denial, still he thinks this will be the day Marius wakes up.

But he doesn’t.

Again and again and again.

So Grantaire drinks, and he waits, and the lives of the other patrons of the Musain move on around him.

Nothing works, nothing helps, and every day Marius remains bedridden, Éponine's hostility towards him grows, until one day she leans against the doorway to his room and says what he's known was coming since the first night she brought Marius to him.

“We have to get in touch with them.” She crosses her arms over her chest, biting at her bottom lip as she watches Marius twist and turn in the dirty bedsheet, as Grantaire tries in vain to get him to lie still. “They can help, they have better supplies than we do.”

“No.” He refuses to be involved with them, not unless he absolutely has to.

“Grantaire.”

“We don’t need the Amis.”

“ _You_ don't,” Éponine replies, “But he does.”

Grantaire knows Marius is dying, he _knows_ it, but knowing and accepting are two completely different things. More than that, he knows that it’s partly his fault, that he was the one who drove Marius to seek out others to talk to and that makes it worse, because feeling guilt means somewhere along the line he started to care about someone other than himself.

“Damn it,” he says, and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, “Damn it, Éponine.”

She rests a hand on his shoulder, a reassuring move he knows is actually just a token gesture, and then it's gone. He turns to watch her over his shoulder as she goes, a study in steel-guarded emotions and heavy boots. She pauses in the doorway on her way out, her back still to him.

“If he dies,” she says, “You'll never forgive yourself.”

\- - - - -

Gavroche sits on the edge of the bar in the Musain, disassembling and reassembling a gun with disconcerting speed, one foot propped up on a bar stool. It's a miracle Grantaire finds him; Gavroche is known to disappear for weeks at time when the mood takes him. It's not like his parents notice or care.

“I need a favour.”

Gavroche’s eyes light up; he grins as he glances up through his eyelashes.

“What’s the payment?”

“A favour.”

Gavroche shrugs one shoulder and continues twisting the gun parts into place faster than the human eye can follow, returning his attention to his task. Grantaire watches his nimble fingers and adds, “And an entrance to the sewers.”

“Pass,” says Gavroche, bored. “I already know all of those.”

“No, you don’t. Not the ones to where the Amis are.”

Gavroche’s head snaps up, his eyes narrow. Despite the bored nonchalance he wears like a cloak of armour, he’s still just a kid; he can’t hide the spark of glee in his eyes. Still, he fights it back as he says, casual-as-you-like, “Thought you were done with that lot.”

“I am.”

“But?”

“But nothing,” says Grantaire, “This isn't a choice. Now do you want an entrance to their headquarters or not?”

“No fucking about?”

“No fucking about," Grantaire echoes, and resists the urge to roll his eyes. He needs to keep Gavroche on side, he’s the only person who can do this for him, who can survive the outside and come back in one piece. Grantaire’s loath to send him out and into Ami territory, but it’s better than sending him into the city, where government soldiers always roam, and anyone who shouldn’t be there is shot on sight.

“I need you to get a message to one of them for me,” Grantaire explains. “They won’t be happy I'm sending you.”

“Not a problem.” Gavroche clicks the last part of the gun into place and thumbs the safety. “What’s the message? Is this about Éponine’s secret government official runaway?”

Grantaire hisses in a sharp breath through his teeth and looks around, but none of the other people in the Musain appear to have overheard him. If they had, Marius wouldn’t be making it out of Grantaire’s place alive, never mind to the Amis. “How did you — you know what, never mind,” he stops himself. It's better not to question the impossibility of Gavroche's knowledge, sometimes. “He needs medical help.”

“Oh,” says Gavroche, “You want Joly.”

Grantaire frowns at the ease with which Gavroche says the name as he slides off the edge of the bar and tucks the gun into the back of his trousers. “Is that a problem?”

“Nah,” says Gavroche, “Better for me. At least this one doesn't want you dead.”

Grantaire bites down on his tongue to stop himself from taking the bait and asking who does, watching instead as Gavroche pulls a pair of worn black gloves out of his pocket and pulls them on, then zips his jacket up to the neck. He looks like a typical scruffy teenager, the kind you’d avoid if they were walking towards you on the street, but Grantaire knows he’s actually anything but.

It’s hard to be just a kid, in the world that’s been left after the wars.

“Don't forget that favour, I'll be cashing in on it soon,” Gavroche says, and hops the bar in one swift, well-practised move. His feet barely hit the floor on the other side before he’s darting away, little more than a shadow between the tables and the world-weary patrons of the Musain.

\- - - - -

Joly shows up a few hours later, when the afternoon is bleeding into evening and the darkness of night is rapidly approaching. He emerges as he always does, suddenly there in a crowded room where moments before he hadn’t been present. Joly’s smile is as bright as Grantaire remembers, at odds with the dark clothing, the various weapons, the deadly reputation that precedes him.

“You have no idea how glad I am it’s not you,” Joly says in greeting, “Out of nowhere Gavroche turns up, says it’s urgent, and bloody hell, R, couldn’t have sent a bit more information, could you?”

The nickname throws Grantaire back for a second, and he feels himself smiling in response; Joly has always had that infectious good cheer about him. “Sorry to let you down. I’m perfectly healthy as always - well, as much as you can be when you’re half-drunk. Or half-sober, I guess, whichever you prefer.”

He’d downed probably more alcohol than was necessary, to prepare himself for this very meeting.

“He's going to be pissed, you know,” says Joly, cutting to the point. Something tugs at Grantaire’s gut as he thinks of exactly who it is Joly’s referring to. “You told someone one of our entrances.”

“I told a kid,” Grantaire replies, though they both know Gavroche is anything but. “And it’s important. I wouldn’t have sent him otherwise. You know that, Joly. Please.”

Joly’s brow furrows, his expression becoming worried. “What’s the problem?” he asks. “Is it Éponine?”

“No, I don’t think anything could kill her. It’s — well, you’ll see.”

Grantaire takes Joly back to his rooms, where Marius still lies fevered on the bed. Joly takes one look at Marius and his eyes widen, the gravity of the situation seems to hit him all at once. “I can’t help him,” he says immediately, “Not here, anyway.” Joly moves further into the room to take a closer look but how, Grantaire doesn’t know; the place reeks of decay.

Joly kneels down next to the bed, places his hands on either side of Marius’s face, peels his eyelids back, peers into his pupils, checks his teeth. Marius doesn’t protest, just lets out a low, pathetic moan. Joly’s attention, then, turns to the wound in Marius’s side, still not healed. He inspects the makeshift bandages and Éponine’s attempt at sewing him back together, tests the skin around the wound carefully with the tips of his fingers.

Finally, Joly wipes his hands off on the bedsheet, rocks back on his heels and says, “I need to take him back.”

Grantaire’s first instinct is to refuse; he has to bite it back. Joly must see the hesitation on his face because he says, “I don’t have the supplies to treat him here. And going back there to get them before coming here, it will take too long. It’s time he doesn’t have.”

Grantaire has to close his eyes to take in a breath, fighting down the panic that rises in his chest. Giving Marius over to the Amis is like signing his death warrant, should they find out that he came from the city, that he has something to do with the government they hate so much.

But keeping him here is also condemning him to death. Grantaire knows he and Éponine cannot save Marius, cannot heal him from whatever it is that afflicts him.

“Okay,” he says, “But he’s not— I’m not—” He cuts himself off, frustrated. Joly looks at him, bemused, as he tries to work out how to say that this kid isn’t what Joly may think he is, that he’s not just another slum-dweller.

But how can he tell him that, and still keep Marius safe? It’s no secret what the Amis think of the government, what they would do to a member that happened to fall so easily into their hands. Even if that person was an ex-official, who had left because he didn’t agree with what was happening.

“He’s not one of us,” Grantaire settles on finally, “But he’s got a good heart.”

Joly raises his eyebrows in surprise, then glances across at where Marius still lies. Grantaire expects him to press for more information, Joly’s too smart to have not read into what he just said, but instead Joly just says, “You’re coming too,” which is just ridiculous. “When I said we need to take him back I meant now.”

Grantaire immediately recoils from the idea. He’s not nearly drunk enough for that, no way, no fucking way. He brushes a hand over his eyes, thinking desperately.

It’s not too far to the nearest entrance to the sewers, between them they could make it quickly enough. From there it’s impossible to tell where they’re going, how far the actual entrance to the Ami headquarters is. Grantaire knows a few of the entrances, but not important ones, not ones that will lead him into the inner sanctum.

The entrance Joly will head for can’t be too far; Joly would never suggest moving Marius if his body couldn’t take it.

Grantaire had sworn to himself once that he’d never go there, that there would be nothing in the world to make him go underground. Yet here he is, seriously contemplating it, and all for a man who months ago, he hadn’t even known.

The closer the entrance is to the slums and the Musain, the easier it will be for Grantaire to get Marius back out once he’s healed - _should_ Grantaire go into the headquarters with him. And, really, he knows there isn’t any other option. Marius has to go there if he’s going to be healed, and Grantaire has to go if he’s going to make sure Marius gets out again alive.

In the end, saving Marius means going into the darkness with him.

“Fine,” he says, “But only because Éponine would kill me otherwise.”

It’s a blatant lie, but Joly doesn’t call him on it.

\- - - - -

It’s night when they leave, submerged in shadows and darkness. Above them the stars seem exhausted, far away, like they can’t work up the energy to shine bright enough. The wind tugs at his skin, makes the old scars ache. It feels like the world itself is conspiring to tell him he shouldn’t be out here, he shouldn’t be doing this.

Each step towards the city puts him on edge, nerves prickling under his skin. He knows the government soldiers rarely leave the city itself, but he’s heard enough stories over the years to be afraid of them anyway. You don’t take over a capital city when the world’s gone to hell without gaining a brutal reputation.

He’s seen the evidence of the executions, the remnants of the people who tried to stand up to them and were systematically wiped out. The Amis weren’t the only group to resist the government, but they are the only one left.

It’s only when they descend into the sewers below the city that Grantaire feels like he no longer has to keep looking over his shoulders. He’s been down here before, not often, but enough to know a couple of escape routes. He’s not the only one; plenty of people topside use the sewers to evade the authorities and get around without detection. Several people even live down here, those with no homes nor the skills to survive in the world above ground.  

Gavroche’s friends, those orphaned by what happened, made this their home long before the Amis. They appear out of the darkness like shadows, sewer rats, stealing and scavenging to survive.

Hidden within the sewers are the Amis headquarters, the places where they plot and plan their revolution. The government officials know the sewers exist - a relic of the time before the world ended - but their raids have never found any evidence of the organisation that challenges them on a daily basis.

When soldiers come down here all they find are the people who cling to the darkness, those who wish for something better but cannot find it.

Not that they treat those people any better.

Marius barely weighs anything at all; Grantaire carries him alone as Joly moves on ahead. Joly walks over the slippery damp surface of the sewer tunnel floor as if it’s nothing at all, occasionally stopping to check Marius’s vitals before moving on ahead. There’s a permanently troubled look on his face and he doesn’t stop frowning, uncharacteristically sombre. The twisting feeling in Grantaire’s gut gets worse with every step, sinking as they descend lower and lower, moving further under the city and into Ami territory.

The door Joly eventually stops at is no different to any of the others. It simply reads _service_ on the side in faded, washed-out letters. Joly raps his knuckles against it twice, then presses his thumb to the inside of Marius’s wrist again as they wait. Marius coughs and stirs, a trickle of something white at the edge of his mouth. Grantaire tries to ignore the pounding of his heart.

Just when Grantaire's starting to think that the door won’t be opened, that they’re being kept out and that maybe it’s a sign that they should go back, that he's not welcome, that he's never been welcome — the door is opened by an extremely beautiful man. He wears the same black gear as Joly, protective and deadly, but on him it looks effortless, like a fashion choice rather than necessity. He smiles and it’s charming, genuine, warm. The Amis’ posterboy, their public face. Courfeyrac. Grantaire eyes the metal baseball bat he has lazily resting against one shoulder, the casual stance that belies how strong he really is.

Grantaire decides to let Joly do the talking. He has no doubt Courfeyrac would kill him on the spot, if given reason, and smile that charming smile whilst he did it. They probably have some sort of code to get in the headquarters anyway.

“He’s not got long,” Joly says, which is a pretty shit password, if anyone asked Grantaire.

Courfeyrac glances over the crumpled form of Marius, barely held up between them. Something dark crosses over that beautiful face, like a cloud passing in front of the sun. From Marius he looks to Grantaire, who cannot read his expression at all, then he nods, once, and turns back to the door. Some sort of movement with his hand fastens the lock behind them and he leads them inside.

Grantaire tries not to feel like he just brought Marius into the lion’s den.

Courfeyrac and Joly talk in low voices ahead of him, conversation he can’t pick up. The sewers have terrible acoustics, dampening some sounds and echoing others. Rather than try to overhear, he focuses instead on the path they’re following, noting the different signposts on the way, a broken light, a twisted pipe, three right turns, a left. He’s going to need them for when he has to break Marius and himself back out.

Courfeyrac leaves them when they reach what appears to be their destination. He sends another glance at Grantaire before he leaves, but doesn’t say anything, and Grantaire’s too tired and too annoyed to call him on it. It feels like the walls are closing in on him already, in this place that he swore he’d never come to, like every step takes him further from where he should be.

Joly gestures for him to put Marius on what looks like an old surgical table. In fact, the whole room they enter looks like one of Grantaire’s fuzzy memories of a hospital ward, only blurred at the edges, as if seen through a haze — and not just because it’s stocked with as many weapons as it is with medical supplies.

Marius stirs slightly as he’s placed down on the table, his pupils dilating when he opens them to see Grantaire. “M’fine,” he says. His hand flutters at his side like he’s trying to reach for him. “S’okay.”

“Fuck off,” Grantaire replies, through a throat suddenly thick. “I don’t need comfort.”

But he does. He gives in, reaches out to take Marius’s hand in his, aiming for reassuring, but falling somewhere short when his grip falters and trembles. Fuck, he needs a drink. He wasn’t supposed to get attached. Joly glances across at where their hands are joined as he returns with a syringe, raises an eyebrow at him. Grantaire looks away.

“It’s going to be alright,” Joly says, turning Marius's other arm over. “Just close your eyes.” As he speaks, he presses a needle against the inside of his elbow, pushing into a vein as he presses the plunger. A clear substance disappears into Marius’s bloodstream, gone in an instant. Grantaire has the sudden, terrifying thought that it could be anything. A virus, a cure, nothing but water. Then Marius takes in a sharp breath and sighs it back out, his whole body relaxing as the drug gets to work.

Joly sets the syringe down and pulls Marius’s shirt back from his side to expose the wound, pulls the soiled wrappings away to reveal the mess underneath. As he does the smell gets even worse, putrid and rancid, like decay. Grantaire recoils.

“Can you do it?” Grantaire asks, desperate. “Can you fix it?” The words bubble up, unwarranted. “Joly, you need to, you have to, I can’t—”

“It’s going to be close,” Joly cuts across him calmly, as he begins to inspect and clean the wound, “You left it extremely late. Why didn’t you contact me earlier? You know I will always help you, regardless of—” His next words are lost in a sudden commotion outside of their room.

“Even if he’s...” Grantaire doesn’t finish his own sentence, he doesn’t have to. “You know why I don’t come here, why I don’t get involved.”

“I know you think you’re saving yourself by keeping away,” Joly replies, loud enough to be heard over the commotion that's still going on outside, “But not everything is the way you think it is.”

The voices outside disappear abruptly, then come back even louder. Grantaire turns to glare in the direction of the door right as it’s flung open and the great and fearless leader of the Amis storms in. He has his outdoor gear on, tough black leather, fingerless gloves, guns and knives strapped to his body. Around his head he’s wearing a ridiculous blood-red cowl to hide his even more ridiculous long blond hair. He looks pissed off.

Pissed off and deadly and hot.

This is why Grantaire stays away from the Amis, why he wants nothing to do with them. He knows all-too well how easy it is to fall under the charismatic spell of their leader. Courfeyrac is their poster boy, the loveable boy-next-door, but Enjolras is something else entirely. He’s passion personified, the type of person that burns brightly, who would set you alight with his ideas and leave you for ashes.

His eyes scan the room, practised and swift, and catch on Grantaire. They scan him from head to toe, taking in the day-old stubble, the puckered scars, the changes since they last saw each other, then pass from him to Joly. Grantaire’s left with the curious sensation he’s been utterly dismissed. He curls his hands into fists and digs his nails into his palms.

He didn't know what he expected, after all this time.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras asks, deadly polite. His voice falls flat, not quite a question.

Joly continues his work on Marius’s wound, peeling back rotted skin and pus. He looks utterly unmoved by Enjolras’s dramatic entrance. “Healing someone,” he says, “Is that a problem?” His voice is still as cheerful as always, but there’s something else under the surface, hard.

Courfeyrac appears in the doorway behind Enjolras. There’s colour high in his cheeks, he practically radiates anger. He too looks straight past Grantaire, but instead of looking at Joly, he looks at Marius, and that strange look passes over his face again.

“Who is he?” Enjolras asks. It’s still not quite a question.

“Someone from the government, I believe,” Joly replies, easy as that.

Grantaire’s head snaps around to look at him, betrayed. He hears Enjolras take in a sharp breath, as if slapped, and tightens his own hand around Marius’s. He knew this was a bad idea, he knew it.

“Excuse me,” says Enjolras, “But I’m not sure I quite got that. I think I heard you saying he’s from the government.”

“I’m happy to do a medical examination on your ears later,” Joly replies blandly. Courfeyrac makes a sound like a hastily suppressed laugh, “But right now I’m trying to save someone’s life.”

Enjolras strides forwards. Grantaire hears him before he sees him, then moves before he can think better of it, making a grab for Enjolras’s wrist to stop him from reaching Marius. Enjolras moves at the same time, automatic; they end up with a hand wrapped around each other’s arms, deadlocked.

“You want to hurt him, you go through me,” Grantaire says, and tightens his grip. He feels hard bones under his fingertips, unyielding. Enjolras glares at him, those blue eyes like chips of ice, frozen over asphalt.

“Are you one of them too?” Enjolras asks.

“ _Fuck_ you,” Grantaire swears, and shoves him away, as hard as he can. "Of course I'm not one of them.” Enjolras’s expression loses some of its hardness, but the hostility is still there. “I’d _never_ be one of them, or do _any_ of the things that they do. I brought him here because he’s fucking dying. What’s he going to do? Die so pathetically you feel sorry for the government and give up your cause? Oh, sorry, I forgot, you don’t have _feelings_.”

“Grantaire—” Courfeyrac tries to interject.

“I’m not concerned with what he can do right now,” says Enjolras. “I’m concerned with what he might do when he’s healthy. Especially now that you’ve shown him an entrance.” He directs this particular bit of anger towards Courfeyrac, still hovering near the door.

“He’s dying, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac replies, “I wasn’t going to leave him out there. And he was with Joly and Grantaire. Grantaire _asked_. He needs our help. What was I supposed to do? Say no?”

Enjolras looks like this is genuinely something he would consider. Disgusted, Grantaire turns away so he doesn't have to look at him any more. Looking at him _hurts_. “Clearly,” he says to Courfeyrac, voice weighted with sarcasm, “Can’t you see? It’s all black and white, us and them, bad guys and good guys. There’s no way someone from the government could be worth something like common decency, how dare Joly presume to save his life.”

He wants to lash out at something. Enjolras’s austere, beautiful face, probably. It’s such a waste that someone as stunning as he is should be so completely devoid of anything even remotely resembling humanity. He looks around for something to hit instead, but there’s nothing. Joly is still working on Marius, ignoring them completely. Courfeyrac’s baseball bat glints in the light flickering overhead as he leans on it like a cane, casually threatening.

Grantaire knows that what he really wants is a drink, but there’s nothing available. There are some liquids dotted around, medicinal in nature, but he’s not that desperate. Instead his desperation comes out as something else, something it shouldn’t, turning into words as he turns back to Enjolras and says, “He left the government because he didn’t agree with what they were doing, because he thinks they’re the tyrants you make them out to be. That’s how Marius got hurt, you know, preaching your stupid ideals.”

Enjolras blinks. “Marius?” he echoes - which should not be the thing he focuses on in that speech - and turns to look at his body on the bench again. This time Joly looks up, and their eyes meet, a look Grantaire can’t read.

“What?” Grantaire asks, “Why is everyone staring? What’s going on?”

“He could help us,” Courfeyrac says, calming, reasonable. “He could be of use. Especially if, as Grantaire says, he’s on our side. Or at least, professes to be.”

Something cold sweeps through Grantaire’s veins, turns them to ice. “No one is using anyone.”

He’s completely ignored. “Just think about it, Enjolras,” says Courfeyrac, all easy charm once again. It’s hard to say no when he looks like that, able to convince even the iciest of hearts to go along with his bad ideas.

After a pause, Enjolras nods. He uncrosses his arms and turns to Joly, his gaze sweeping over Marius one last time as he says, “Keep him here. I want to speak to him when he wakes up.”

His gaze flickers to Grantaire again for the briefest of seconds, and then he leaves the room with Courfeyrac. It’s a much more sedate exit than the entrance. Grantaire wants to charge out after them, demand to know what they was talking about, why Enjolras changed his mind, shake him by the shoulders until he showed _some_ emotion, but then Marius makes a small sound behind him.

Grantaire turns back to Marius reluctantly, takes up his hand again and holds tight. He’s not sure whether it’s to reassure Marius or himself; his hands have started to shake. Joly glances across at their joined hands for a second but says nothing, just carries on cleaning Marius’s wound.

As Joly continues to save Marius, Grantaire tries not to think about what might have happened, had Enjolras answered the door to the inner headquarters, not Courfeyrac.

This was not how he imagined it would go, seeing Enjolras again.

But then, they'd both made it very clear that they never did want to see each other again.

\- - - - -

“Sorry about Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, when he finds him a few hours later.

Grantaire's drinking alone in the alcove of one of the tunnels, with a bottle he gave in and stole from one of the cabinets in Joly's room. It’s got some sort of medicinal use, bitter and acrid to the taste, but alcoholic. He's gotten to the point where the cold seeps through to his clothes from the concrete but he can't feel it; all he cares about is that his hands have stopped shaking.

He doesn’t know what he expected when he finally saw Enjolras again - more shouting, probably, they were good at shouting - but the cool disinterest and the distance between them leave an absence in his chest, make him feel hollow.

Courfeyrac drops down gracefully to sit next to him and hands over a bottle of what looks like wine. It’s a cheap ploy at getting into his good books, but after everything that’s happened today, Grantaire’s feeling easy. He looks at the medicine still in his hand, then puts it down in favour of the wine.

He takes a long swig from the bottle, which turns out to be - surprisingly good, actually - and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Does he always enter dramatically like that now?” he asks, “And, you know, try to kill people without even finding out who they are?”

“Oh, all the time,” Courfeyrac replies, glib, “You get used to it. Do you always make friends with government officials despite being, and I quote, ‘fucking neutral, Courfeyrac, stop trying to convert me’?”

“Ha,” replies Grantaire with no mirth whatsoever, and scowls. “We’re not friends.”

“Right,” replies Courfeyrac, “Life-saving associates, then.”

“Has anyone ever told you about this thing called personal space?” Grantaire asks, “It’s a simple concept, really. See, there are some things that people just don’t want to talk about and that other people don’t ask them about.”

“Bit late for that,” Courfeyrac points out. “You’re both here now.” And doesn’t that sound ominous? Grantaire wishes, not for the first time, that he’d just left after he got Marius here. But there’s no way he’s leaving Marius here alone. He takes another drink.

“So how’d you come to be spending time with an ex-government official?” asks Courfeyrac, and it sounds innocent but Grantaire knows it’s anything but. He has to tread carefully here, if he wants to keep his life and not be branded a traitor forever. There’s a reason they sent Courfeyrac to find out where his allegiances lie.

They might have some sort of interest - for now - in keeping Marius alive, but it’s not clear whether that extends to Grantaire himself.

“Éponine,” Grantaire replies darkly and scowls, as he rolls the bottle between his hands. This is all her fault. Her, and her stupid bleeding heart, making him look after a guy who should have been able to look after himself. A guy who had some sort of link to the government, an organisation Grantaire had never wanted anything to do with.

“And how’d she end up with him?” asks Courfeyrac.

“I don’t know, I think she just picked him up one day. Like a stray puppy. He followed her home and then never left.” God, how Grantaire wishes he had left.

“So what are you, dog-sitting?” Courfeyrac asks, and Grantaire snorts despite himself. Fuck, there’s just something effortlessly charming about Courfeyrac, and it’s the worst thing ever. He takes another swig of the bottle as Courfeyrac says, “Is he house-trained?”

“Yeah, but he likes to run off when you take him for walks and start preaching about fucking revolution.” Okay, he sort of lost the dog metaphor there, but it’s true. This whole incident could have been avoided if Marius hadn’t tried to get involved with the resistance, hadn’t started preaching at people about how things could be better and how they had to change the world.

“Good breed, though,” Courfeyrac says, “Not the kind you’d expect to find around here.”

And there it is, the thing Grantaire had wanted to keep from them. He should have known, when he hinted that Marius was from the government, that Joly would pass on the information. Though they are friends - of a sort - Joly will always be much more devoted to his cause. Enjolras and the revolution always come first.

“Yeah, well,” says Grantaire, and frowns down at the bottle. He turns it over, picking at the label as he tries to make out what the faded lettering says. It’s left a pleasant buzz just under his skin, faster than Éponine’s usually does. “I wasn’t lying, when I said he wasn’t part of the government any more.”

“I know you believe that,” Courfeyrac replies, “But he followed them, once.”

“And you’ve never made a mistake before?” Grantaire asks, “Never made a bad choice and come to regret it?”

“Not one that involves totalitarian dictatorships who deny the people a voice and shoot those who try to use one, no.”

“God, it’s still all so black and white to you, isn’t it?” Grantaire demands, and shoves the wine bottle back into Courfeyrac’s hands, disgusted. He gets to his feet, the old anger returning, burning like an itch under his skin. Frustration crawls up his spine, sits heavy on his shoulders. “You just always see it as them and us, it’s no wonder you’ve not made any progress. How can you, when you refuse to trust anyone?”

Courfeyrac arches an eyebrow at him, just watching him pace. “And you trust everyone, do you?”

Grantaire scowls, and looks away. “That’s different.”

“No, it’s not. You're alone by choice, because you don't trust anyone and I get it, I do, you think it makes you safe. But can't you see? Trusting each other makes _us_ safe, and distrusting the government makes us even safer."

“So why are you saving Marius then?” Grantaire asks, “Why did you argue with Enjolras to let Joly heal him?”

Courfeyrac looks abruptly awkward. He stalls for a few seconds by running his hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. Eventually he says, “You were right that he’s from the government, but I don’t think he ever told you how high up he was. Or who he’s related to.”

“What?” There’s a sinking feeling in Grantaire’s gut, the moment he’s been waiting for ever since he first saw Marius in the Musain, too clean and too naive by half, out of place and a world away from where he should be, too informed on some things, too oblivious of others. “What does that mean?”

“He’s too important to let go of. Look, it’s not my place to tell you, not when we’re not even sure if it is him. We might be wrong.”

“Might,” echoes Grantaire, and wonders what will happen if he’s not. If Marius is no longer valuable, what happens then? “He really does believe in what you're trying to do,” he says carefully, thinking ahead, trying to find a way to keep Marius safe — at least until he can get Marius back out to the Musain. “When he comes around he’ll want to talk to you. Even if he’s not who you think he is, he’ll tell you everything he knows.”

But just what Marius did know, remained to be seen.

\- - - - -

Jehan corners him in the sewers the next day, just outside of the room Joly's using as a makeshift hospital. Marius is recovering, but he’s still looking pale and drawn. Grantaire wants to stay with him, keep an eye on him, but staring at Marius as he sleeps gets _boring._

He has enough time to close the door behind him and look up and then he's being tackled.

“You're _here_ ,” says Jehan, and he sounds breathless and excited and _fuck_ , this isn’t what Grantaire wanted at all. The bright smile on Jehan’s face is blinding, he looks like the sun just rose.

“I knew you'd come eventually, I knew you couldn't stay away,” he rushes, leaning back so he can look Grantaire in the eye. His small, elfin frame looks as breakable as always, dark eyes warm and soft. Gavroche must be taller than him now, Grantaire realises, and is hit with the sudden sharpness of lost time, how long it's been since they last saw each other.

Grantaire lifts his hands and places them on Jehan's shoulders, pushing him away gently, but firmly. Jehan's smile falters and then fades. “I'm not staying,” says Grantaire, “I'm here for Marius. When he's healthy, I'm going again. _We're_ going.”

He doesn't care what Courfeyrac said, or Enjolras. They might think they're keeping Marius, but they're not. Grantaire knows what happens to those who follow the Amis blindly, and Marius is exactly the kind of person to get caught up in their fervour. There's a reason Grantaire never told him he knew the Amis.

Jehan frowns up at him, rocking back on his heels. He's dressed in the same black gear as the others, Grantaire realises belatedly, but where they are always armed and equipped with various deadly weapons, Jehan wears nothing but a set of headphones, wireless, one of the few pieces of technology that survived the wars and still works. He pushes the mic away from his mouth as he says, “Courfeyrac said you'd come with someone else, but you always said you'd never come here, not for any reason.”

Grantaire looks at him helplessly, and shrugs. “Yeah, well.”

“So you didn't come back for us?” Jehan sounds hurt, and part of Grantaire wants to reassure him, to bring that smile back with promises he knows he can't keep.

“No,” he says. “I'm sorry, Jehan. When I told Enj— when I said I wasn't joining you down here, I wasn't lying.” He tries half a smile. “But you're more than welcome to come with me, when we go.”

“You know I won't do that.”

“I know,” agrees Grantaire, and sighs. “It was worth asking.”

Jehan half-smiles, showing the one dimple he always wears proudly. There are faint lines around his eyes that hadn't been there when Grantaire knew him, marks of age, and his hair is longer now, caught in a braid at the nape of his neck. Grantaire used to tug on the strands when he wanted to annoy him, curled locks around his finger and grinned until Jehan hit him.

Another time, another place.

It's probably nostalgia that makes him sling his arm around Jehan's shoulder, tugging him in close. “I'm not staying, but that doesn't mean I can't enjoy myself now,” he says, and turns Jehan away from the door to Joly's room and back towards the tunnels. “So tell me about this place, this veritable bastion of justice.”

Jehan huffs, and nudges him with his shoulder, but starts talking as they walk.

\- - - - -

Grantaire doesn't intend to find the supply room. He comes across it by accident, when Jehan's left him and he's trying to find his way back to Marius. The headquarters of the Amis are a network of tunnels, building in on each other and around. Some of the tunnels are dead-ends, others end abruptly with rusted metal grates, and everything is washed in the same half-yellow light, old beams run by a failing generato. It’s impossible to tell any of the tunnels apart.

Grantaire swears vociferously when he realises he’s walking down a tunnel he’s already been through before, and turns sharply on his heel to head in the opposite direction.

The sewers are the perfect place to hide, and Grantaire is really starting to hate the Amis for that. For all the reasons they had to go underground, and the government that drove them there.

For the leader who had refused to back down, and cut all ties.

He understands why they did it, what drove Enjolras to make such a decision, but that doesn’t necessarily mean that he agrees with it.

The world ended with a succession of wars. Governments and countries turned on each other, then someone released a deadly virus. Everything had crashed after that, people just desperate to survive. Grantaire had only cared about himself, about getting away, and it was still the same desire that drove him now. People like the Amis couldn’t be trusted, they had _ideas_ , and ideas and rebellion were what had started it all in the first place.

After world order crashed there was a power vacuum, and into that vacuum stepped whoever was strong enough to seize and hold power.

When people started venturing back into the cities again, it was the rich, privileged elite who took Paris. People who had rode out the end of the world in their safe houses with access to supplies others became dependent on. They were ruthless and brutal and the ultimatum was clear: live in their new world, or die in the old, devastated one.

They still have complete control over all of the supplies in the city; the populace is entirely dependent on them. Those who aren’t, or who are unwilling to beg, scavenge for what they can on the outskirts. The black market where Marius was stabbed is a risky business, populated those who don’t want to survive on government handouts.

Grantaire doesn’t agree with the public executions and the soldiers and the other aspects of the government regime, but he gets that someone has to come out on top, that the only way to conserve supplies and survive is to put someone in charge.

His thoughts are so lost he doesn’t take account of where he’s walking, pushes open a door to a room packed full of boxes and crates. His feet take him in before his brain catches up, making him pause when he sees the vaguely-familiar brand burned haphazardly into the nearest crates. Then his attention is pulled sharply elsewhere, when he realises that the room is not empty.

Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac stand with a man Grantaire doesn't know. A twisted, shining burn covers half of his face, across his cheekbone to the shell of his ear. This man wasn’t a member of the Amis when Grantaire knew them, and for a second it makes bitterness tighten his gut, at the ease with which he was replaced— though, of course, he'd never actually said he was one of them.

The four men are deep in discussion around a table in the centre of the room. The one Grantaire doesn't know wears the same black gear, well-worn. He has a selection of knives strapped to different parts of his body, and a long coil of rope twisted into a loop over one shoulder. He's gesturing at a piece of paper Courfeyrac holds, the gloves on his hands are fingerless.

“What the fuck,” says Grantaire. It takes his mind a moment to catch up, to connect the dots. “Is this— are you stealing government supplies?”

Enjolras is the first one to turn around at the sound of his voice, and Grantaire takes in a sharp breath.

Enjolras looks different without the red cowl, the black gear. Softer around the edges, more human, with the sleeves of a well-worn sweater rolled up to his elbows and his hair pulled into a loose braid. Part of Grantaire laments the loss - there’s something to be said about black leather - but another part of him goes impossibly _soft_.

Then Enjolras opens his mouth and Grantaire remembers the distance between them, the wall Enjolras has built and refuses to cross, “Why are you here?”

“Is that a question?” he asks, because he can be confrontational when he wants, and Enjolras always seems to bring that side out of him. "Because, you know, you have this way of talking that leaves statements flat, like you don’t actually want an answer and are already judging whoever it is you’re talking to.”

Enjolras’s eyes widen slightly, and then narrow; that beautiful face marred by distaste. Grantaire’s relieved, because it’s easier to look at this - this _softer_ , _human_ Enjolras - when he’s glaring at Grantaire like he’s personally responsible for everything bad in the world.

“Are you here to help us,” says Enjolras, which is still not a question, “Or are you just going to stand there mocking everything we do?”

Grantaire considers pointing out that actually, he was mocking Enjolras, not the Amis, but bites down on the urge because, sometimes, he knows better than to antagonise the extremely ruthless head of a terrorist organisation. “I don’t know, are outsiders allowed in? I mean, let’s not forget that anyone who isn’t one of you is the enemy.”

“Of course they’re allowed in,” Enjolras snaps, “We offer refuge and aid to anyone who needs our help.” As if to demonstrate his point, gestures at the piece of paper Courfeyrac is still holding. Courfeyrac’s eyes flicker from Grantaire to Enjolras and then back again, thoughtful.

“But where did these supplies come from?” Grantaire presses, “This much stuff, you couldn’t have saved it in years.”

Combeferre glances at Feuilly, then clears his throat and says, “Grantaire, I think it’s best if you—” but is interrupted when Enjolras speaks over him to say, “Where do you _think_ it came from? Who are the only people to have these kind of supplies? Who is currently restricting supplies to the masses, to ensure that they’re utterly dependent on them, and thus more likely to fall in line?”

“You stole from the government?” Grantaire demands, his anger building at the confirmation. “You idiot, are you _trying_ to get yourself killed?”

“Of course not," says Enjolras, “I'm trying to _save_ the people.”

“And what about the _people_ those supplies were intended for?” Grantaire asks, “The government is giving the supplies _to_ them! Do they not deserve food? What if they needed them to _live_ , and you’ve just taken them—”

Enjolras’s eyes darken with anger. Combeferre moves forward instantly to place a calming hand on his arm and is shrugged off violently. Enjolras stalks around the edge of the table, closer to Grantaire now, like the sheer force of his anger is drawing them together. “They chose to conform, they chose to believe the lies—”

“Yes because everyone chooses a dictatorship.”

“Jesus Christ,” says Courfeyrac, and suddenly he and the burnt man are at Grantaire’s side, steering him away from the room and back into the sewers. The last sight Grantaire has of Enjolras is him being held back from following by Combeferre, who presses a dark hand to his chest, quietly forceful.

“Well,” says the new man, as they quietly but firmly escort Grantaire down the hall, “Courfeyrac told me you could get a rise out of Enjolras, but I didn’t expect _that_.”

With every step away from Enjolras, Grantaire finds his anger subsiding, until it's no longer a burning mass but a quiet flame, crackling occasionally. By the time they're out of sight of the supply room he can even muster half a smile and a wry, “It’s a gift.” Not his finest one - though truthfully, he doesn’t have any of those. “You’ve been talking about me then, have you?” This, he directs to Courfeyrac with a pointed look.

“Yeah, all the time,” the other man replies and actually holds out a hand to be shaken. “I'm Feuilly.” Grantaire pauses before taking his hand, but Feuilly doesn’t appear to take it as a slight, just gives him an extremely firm handshake. “It’s my job to get hold of those supplies you so quickly dismissed back there.”

“And risks his life doing it, I might add, for little to no reward,” adds Courfeyrac helpfully.

Grantaire is self-aware enough to know he’s being admonished, but he still thinks it’s a stupid thing for them to be doing. Feuilly is risking his - and possibly other’s - lives by taking the government on in such close quarters to get supplies. There are plenty of people who survive above ground by themselves, finding and securing their own supplies - Grantaire himself, for example.

“More fool him,” says Grantaire, and pulls his arm away from Courfeyrac’s grip. He rubs at the top of his arm, more out of annoyance than actual hurt, and watches Feuilly’s smile pull tight at the corners.

“And Marius?” asks Courfeyrac.

Grantaire frowns. “And Marius what?”

“Where do you think the supplies that are currently being used to heal him came from? You think they just appeared as if by magic?"

Grantaire opens his mouth to reply and then stops, frowning, because it’s obvious, isn’t it? Everything here is illegal, and not just the people. Part of him has always known that Joly's supplies aren’t legal, but he's been much more concerned with how they’re finally stopping Marius from dying.

“You should come with us sometime,” Feuilly says, “See the sort of condition some of these people are in, and just what the government’s keeping from them.”

Grantaire looks across at Courfeyrac and raises an eyebrow. If anything, Grantaire knows _he_ is closer than any of the Amis to the 'people'. He fucking lives above ground with them, he sees first hand what it’s like — though, of course, he keeps himself apart. Those that survive, the ones like him at the Musain, they don't survive on handouts from the government _or_ the Amis.

“Yeah,” Grantaire replies finally, looking back at Feuilly, “Maybe.” Absolutely fucking not.

Feuilly smiles. “Well, if you don’t, you can at least come and play cards with us one night.”

The offer is delivered so casually, it takes Grantaire a moment to actually process it. When he does, blinking, Feuilly is just looking politely back at him, waiting for an answer. Over his shoulder Grantaire can see Courfeyrac grinning.

“Uh,” he says. “I'm not here to—” _have fun_ , he almost says, and then stops himself because doesn't _that_ make him sound like a certain blond revolutionary of the past?

Courfeyrac quirks an eyebrow at him. “Fine,” Grantaire says, “You guys play poker?”

“Oh my friend,” says Courfeyrac, “Do you really think I'd let everyone work without any play?” His grin widens, and it takes Grantaire straight back to the Musain, several years ago. Nights spent playing cards and drinking whatever alcohol they could get their hands on, anything to forget the world outside the door.

Their weapons had never been too far away, but the warmth of belonging was much closer, and the sense of a home amongst nothing, born of spilt blood, war, and being in the right place at the right time.

“No,” Grantaire admits, “But I bet your poker face is still as awful as it's always been.”

\- - - - -

Grantaire met Enjolras first, but he doesn't want to think about that.

They met Courfeyrac next, found him when they were hiking across the country, half-alive and mostly-trusting, always bickering between narrow escapes from the different gangs which had formed when world order crashed. Some people said the wars came first, others claimed it was the virus. Grantaire hadn’t cared - still didn’t - all that mattered to him was survival.

Courfeyrac was holed up in what had been a service station, equipped with the only weapon he'd found in car outside; a child's baseball bat. “I don't know how to fire a gun,” he'd said, and Grantaire had shown him, but he'd always stuck with that bat, even long after.

The sky became stained a permanent bruise-purple, the clouds matt-grey: it was only when the sun was starting to show, when it rose again, blood red and threatening, that they'd found Joly, healing people the next city over, trying his best with supplies that were rapidly running out, in a hospital that was losing its backup power.

It was sometime around then that Enjolras and Courfeyrac started to talk about what could be, about what might rise up from the ashes of their old world. Not long after meeting Joly, they found Combeferre and Jehan. People who fed Enjolras's ideals and dreams of a better world.

Then, they reached Paris, and came face-to-face with the reality of the kind of group that had actually seized power.

\- - - - -

Grantaire’s idea of a good time is the strongest bottle of alcohol he can find, and a stool at the Musain all his own, with no interruptions and nothing to stop him on the way to getting blissfully, blacked-out drunk.

The Amis, it seems, have no intention of letting him do that.

Joly’s medical room is within the inner circle, one layer within a layer. Marius is being kept in the main hub of the Amis’ revolution, the place where only the core are allowed, people who are named by the government and will face a very grisly death if found.

Grantaire has always known that his knowledge of one of the entrances is a rare thing, but he doesn't truly grasp Enjolras's anger at him for sharing it with Gavroche until he sees what they've built around them.

Surrounding the headquarters is another circle of rooms and tunnels, a place where far more people live, work and breathe. Those who believe in the revolution - or want the safety the Amis provide - are kept here, an underground network the government occasionally finds branches of, but cannot destroy entirely. If it’s hard to find this part of the sewers, it’s nearly impossible to find the inner circle.

Grantaire can hear these other people as they walk, their voices echoing through the rusted grates and dark bricks, conversations held by people he cannot see. Another world wrapped around this one. It makes escaping with Marius harder; he will have to get through not one stronghold, but two.

Outside of the second layer are the sewers themselves, the network of pipes and tunnels that worm their way under the city and spread out across the landscape. The tunnels that will lead him in one direction to the government-controlled city, and in the other to the Musain and freedom.

It is through the inner circle that Feuilly and Courfeyrac lead Grantaire, two nights later, chatting amiably. At an entrance to the second layer they meet up with a dark-skinned man with dreadlocks and a succession of tattoos crawling up his muscled arms, whom Feuilly introduces as Bahorel.

“You're the one giving Enjolras shit, yeah?” Bahorel asks, oblivious to the way Grantaire grimaces at the name.

“Grantaire is the King of pissing off our dear leader,” says Courfeyrac, and Bahorel grins widely.

“I'm getting you wasted,” he promises, and Grantaire wonders when that became his moniker. Will they put it on his grave? _Here lies Grantaire, utterly unremarkable apart from his ability to piss off beautiful terrorists._

The tunnels lead them through the darkness, occasional grates overhead providing spotted beams of moonlight, until they get to a room that has been repurposed as a bar of sorts. Tables and chairs are strewn throughout, mismatched and in various states of disarray. There’s an old wooden chest of drawers against one wall, jarring, it throws Grantaire back to before, to how bedrooms had looked before the war.

On top of the chest of drawers is a collection of different drink bottles, varying in age and condition. Just seeing them makes something turn over in Grantaire's chest, some strange sort of homesickness, of wanting to be back at the Musain with Éponine and Marius, and away from this world and its people.

Bahorel grabs one of the bottles from the chest as they enter, and Feuilly procures four mismatched mugs from one of the drawers as Courfeyrac gets them a table. Grantaire gets the mug with a chip in the rim and half a handle. Bahorel pours four generous shots of what turns out to be tequila for them all, then does it again, when they’re downed immediately.

“This stuff isn’t actually that bad,” Grantaire admits, reaching out for the bottle, taking it from Bahorel and turning it over to see the label. The words are too faded to make out, covered in a thin layer of grime and dust. He brushes his thumb across it and the side comes away stained grey.

“Better if we had lime and salt, though,” he adds, wistful.

“Fucking end of the world,” says Bahorel darkly, then turns to Feuilly. “Couldn't you, you know, steal us some luxuries instead of necessities every once in a while?”

Feuilly snorts, and takes the bottle from Grantaire to pour them all another shot. There's something in Grantaire’s chest that just wants to like Bahorel and Feuilly, though he knows once Marius is well he won't see them again.

“Maybe you should say that to your glorious leader,” he says, because alcohol always loosens his tongue, and he's always tended towards confrontation and bitterness when alcohol is involved. “Seems he thinks his revolution is going to fix everything.”

“Maybe it will,” replies Feuilly, and frowns when Grantaire rolls his eyes. “He's prepared, he knows what the people want.”

“The current government thought the same, I'm sure, and look what's become of them,” Grantaire replies, gesturing with the bottle in his hands. “The whole world went to shit trying to fix what corruption had filtered its way through society last time, and look where we ended up.”

“With no lime for our tequila?” asks Courfeyrac, and Grantaire snorts.

“Shut up and show me your cards,” he replies, trying to divert the conversation away from his cynicism. He’d rather not spiral off into a black mood, right now. The conversation and the people are too good. “You promised me poker.”

Courfeyrac pulls a packet from one of the pockets in his jacket, begins dealing them out with a professional air. Joly joins them after a few games, actually stopping in his tracks when he sees Grantaire at the table, then beaming at him with a grin so wide he has to look away. With Joly is a man called Bossuet, who knocks over what’s left of the tequila bottle in his attempt to reach over and shake Grantaire's hand.

Grantaire likes him instantly, and has no reason to whatsoever.

“We should go to the Musain sometime,” Joly says much later, at the bottom of a bottle of weak whiskey that has most definitely been mixed with something unsavoury. It burns Grantaire's throat and makes his eyes water as he knocks back what’s left of his mug. “They have awful alcohol, the worst, but the atmosphere is so much better.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Bossuet, nodding his head enthusiastically; alcohol has made him flush pink across his cheeks, a colour that spreads up to his already-balding head. “Definitely, sounds great, wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“I know a couple of guys who go there,” says Bahorel, “You know, from before. The kind who break legs first and ask names, well, never. Pretty dangerous in a fight, but worthwhile if they know you.” He could be describing just about anyone in the Musain. It's a neutral space, but only for those strong enough to survive alone outside of the city.

“Were you a security guard then, too?” Grantaire asks. He's found that it's the profession most of the Musain regulars had, before everything went to hell. Or at least, the profession they are happiest enough to say they had, to explain for their knowledge of firearms and self-defence.

“What? Fuck no. I was a lawyer. Best thing that ever happened to me, the end of the world.”

“You were a lawyer?” demands Bossuet at the same time Feuilly says, “Wait, a minute ago you were pissed about the end of the world.”

“Would you be okay with that?” Joly asks Grantaire quietly, to one side. Of the six of them, he's the most sober, and not just because he joined them late. Grantaire well remembers Joly’s legendary ability to drink copious amounts of alcohol and stay standing; he still has black spots in his memory, from the one time he'd tried to keep up.

“With what?” Grantaire asks, pulling his attention away from Bossuet’s interrogation of Bahorel.

Joly's eyes are soft, when he looks at him. “If we came to the Musain, for old time's sake?”

Grantaire just gives him a look, and stalls by downing the rest of his drink. His mug clinks when he puts it on the table, he curls a hand around the half-missing handle. “I don't think that's a good idea.”

He doesn't want to look at Joly's expression, he knows already what it’ll be— exactly the same as Jehan's, when he'd told him he wasn't staying. Grantaire keeps his head turned away so he doesn't have to see it. The new angle gives him a view of the door to the room, prime seat for when Enjolras strides in a second later.

A ripple runs through the room, people straighten in their chairs, turning to look at him. He has the black gear on again, the red cowl making him stand out. He's clearly just come back from outside, his cheeks are flushed, his hair ruffled from the wind when he hooks his fingers under the cowl and pushes it back. He looks elated, high on adrenaline, proud to be here.

Grantaire can’t tear his eyes away, tightening his hands around the mug in his grip.

At his side is Combeferre. He looks equally happy, talks quickly and quietly to Enjolras, gesturing with one hand. Enjolras nods along, even as he greets the different people in the room with small gestures: a raised hand, a flicker of a smile. He takes his time to greet everyone, turning to their table last. He has genuine smiles for everyone there, until his eyes meet Grantaire's, and he frowns.

Grantaire looks away.

Joly’s leg bumps his under the table, and Bossuet leans over to pour him another drink. When Grantaire’s mug is finally refilled, Enjolras is in the middle of the room. A couple of people have shifted tables to make room for him, the centre of the room almost like a stage, as if Enjolras is an act they came here to see.

The realisation hits Grantaire like a brick. He should have _known_ that the Amis didn’t just drink, that even a social activity has some sort of purpose. Of course they’d drag him along to this, to hear Enjolras preaching his ideals, as if Grantaire hasn’t heard them a hundred times before.

As if he wasn’t the person Enjolras first practised them on.

Enjolras starts speaking and it's the usual thing - fuck the government, join the revolution - but Grantaire's mind doesn’t react the way it _should_. It's like a breath of fresh air, after a lifetime indoors, Enjolras's words stirring something inside him that's been dormant and quiet for so long. Grantaire sees it in the others too, when he chances a look across the table at them. There’s a spark in their eyes and tension in their bodies, they’re filled with the urge to _do_ something, to make a difference.

Grantaire has never denied that Enjolras is a fantastic public speaker, that he makes people feel like they can do something, make a difference. No, his problem lies in what comes after, what happens to the people after Enjolras has inspired them. He wants to believe, he does, but he knows that believing doesn’t mean that things will change. It’s far more likely that these people will die, these well-meaning men with their bright eyes and their shining ideals, and it makes him feel sick.

He gets to his feet suddenly, the scrape of his chair legs loud, jarring. Enjolras's eyes snap to his across the room, sudden and sharp and so bright.

(“ _You're impossible,” says Grantaire. “No one's supposed to actually have eyes the colour of the sky,” and Enjolras laughs_.)

Joly turns to reach for him but Grantaire walks out, doesn't linger to hear the door slam shut behind him.

\- - - - -

“We have to go, we can't stay here,” Grantaire says, gripping hold of the edge of the bed Marius is lying on. “We can't — _I_ can't do this.”

The continual exposure, the immersion in the world down here, it's starting to get to him. He can feel himself being pulled back into the orbit he'd tried so hard to cut himself off from, slipping down into the abyss. Towards the light from the shadow.

“You've got to wake up, Marius, you've got to.” He grips the bed so tightly his knuckles turn white, his hands start to shake. “Please.”

He doesn't remember the rest of the night, after that.


	2. Chapter 2

“Grantaire!”

Marius sits up straight in his bed three days later, topless and exhausted but alive, a thick bandage secured around his waist. It clearly pains him to move but that doesn't stop the stupidly large grin on his face when he sees Grantaire walk in, or the way he opens his arms as if he wants to hug him.

Painfully aware of Joly on his other side, Grantaire sits down instead on the chair pulled up next to Marius's bedside. Marius frowns at him and then lowers his arms slowly, his cheeks colouring, warm blood rushing to the surface in his embarrassment, and suddenly all Grantaire can think about is how he'd nearly bled out across the floor in the back room of the Musain.

“I came as soon as I could,” he says, pressing his hands against his own thighs, desperately trying to stop the shaking. He nods his head in the direction of the man who came in with him, “Joly told me you were finally conscious.”

“Yeah,” says Marius, “I'm sorry for putting you in that position, of making you worry so much.”

“It's—” Grantaire starts to say, and then stops himself. He'd been about to say 'nothing' but that isn't true at all. “It's fine,” he settles on, though he can see from Marius's frown that he doesn't believe him.

“I'll leave you two alone,” says Joly, backing towards the door, “I'll be just outside if you need me.”

Grantaire nods, but keeps his eyes fixed on Marius until he hears the door shut. Then he asks on a rush of air, “How are you really? How have they treated you since you woke up? Joly is a good guy but the others—”

“The Amis, you mean?” asks Marius, and it feels like a gentle rebuke. Grantaire winces.

“They're — well, they helped you, didn't they?” asks Marius, “When you needed it.” Marius looks like he's weighing every word before he says it, comparing the real-life group to the one he had idealised when he'd left the city and the government. “That means something.”

There's a sinking feeling in Grantaire's chest. He swallows around it, feeling his voice growing hoarse as he says, “Marius, they're not—” but he doesn't know how to finish, and Marius continues over him anyway.

“Now I can finally talk to them, discuss the things I wanted. You have no idea how important this is, how much it means that I'm finally here, that I can do something.” With each word Grantaire is reminded of how Marius had been when Éponine first found him in the Musain, making a whole lot of enemies and about to get himself killed, asking anyone he could find about the Amis and what they were doing. The same thing he’d been doing when he had been stabbed in the market.

Grantaire digs his fingers into his thighs and says, “We're not staying here.”

“What?”

He hates that it makes Marius look less happy, that it wipes that bright, brilliant expression from his face, but he continues doggedly, “We can't, it's not safe. While you were out Enjolras and Courfeyrac saw you and they said—”

“You saw Enjolras and Courfeyrac?”

“—you could be useful, that you were a valuable asset to be used—”

“—I can’t believe you - I _can_ be useful! That's why I'm here, I want to help them!”

“That's good to know,” says a new voice from behind them.

It's Enjolras, and with him are Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Joly. Joly must have gone to get them, when he'd excused himself to give Grantaire and Marius some privacy. Once again, Grantaire is reminded that despite being his friend, Joly's first loyalty is always to the Amis. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

“So, are you going to tell Grantaire just who you are?” Enjolras asks Marius, which is so unexpected and such a strange thing to ask that Grantaire just stares at him, because what. Enjolras shoots a look back at him, and it's grimly triumphant.

Marius pales on the bed, looking first to Grantaire desperately, then back to Enjolras, eyes wide. “That's not important, I cut all ties with him—”

Grantaire stares between them, feels the world start to give way under his feet.

“Your precious _friend_ ,” Enjolras says the word like he thinks Marius is anything but, like he's a part of the government Grantaire had sworn he wasn't, “Is the grandson of Gillenormand.”

And Grantaire just thinks _fuck_.

\- - - - -

He knows who Gillenormand is, of course. It would be impossible not to: his face is emblazoned on enough posters and his name thrown around by supporters and dissenters alike regularly. Not that there are many dissenters left.

He made sure to see to that.

The world fell apart in the middle of summer, seven years ago. In the years after the bombs and the virus and the wars, when people were scraping to try and pull the world back together, Gillenormand had been the one to step up, the one to form a government and take control of Paris.

Only he’d never relinquished that control, and those who opposed him were thrown from the city to survive in the wasted land beyond. Or, if they had tried to turn people against him, taken deeper into the city, to the buildings repurposed as prisons, tortured for information and then never seen again, not until their executed bodies were displayed as a warning to all else. Gillenormand had systematically wiped out all opposition, then ensured that only those loyal to him benefitted from his new rule.

Grantaire knew very little of the man, his policies, or his government beyond that. All he knew was that it was best not to cross him or his well-armed forces. The rumour that his grandson had disappeared had circulated the Musain a few months ago, there had been word of a reward for anyone with information, but the people in the Musain weren't stupid. They knew that they would give up their information only to be tortured for more, and so no one had said they knew anything.

Marius looks nothing like Gillenormand, but that doesn’t matter; what damns him is the way he pauses, the guilt that’s plain on his face before he can try to come up with some sort of cover story.

\- - - - -

“You _bastard_ ,” says Grantaire, and Marius's eyes widen.

The chair falls to the floor as Grantaire gets to his feet, as he turns around on the spot and shoves Enjolras as hard as he can, gets hands fisted in his stupid black top and slams him back against the nearest wall. One of Enjolras’s arms lashes out and hits a metal trolley, syringes go clattering onto the floor, Grantaire crushes one under his foot as he steps forwards.

“He was fucking _stabbed_ for you! You think I give a shit that he's Gillenormand's - whatever? He nearly bled out and died in my arms and the first thing you do is try and turn me against him?”

“He's a member of the government!” Enjolras bellows back at him.

“No he's _not_.”

“Yes he is! You admitted that yourself!”

“Was!” Grantaire corrects, “ _Was_ a member, but he left.”

He is distantly aware of the others watching them, Courfeyrac’s frown and Marius’s look of muted horror. He expects a knife in the back from the other Amis any second now, a killing blow to stop him from murdering their leader instead.

“So you think,” Enjolras says, and there's finally some expression in that face, something beyond the mask he's worn since Grantaire came here. “He's playing you, Grantaire! He has to be!”

“What does that even _mean_? Why would you think that?”

“Because why else would you come here for him and not _me_?”

Enjolras freezes, mouth open, realising he's said too much, and Grantaire's heart lodges itself somewhere in his throat.

“What?” he asks, hoarse, and doesn't resist when Enjolras shoves his arms away this time.

“You heard what I said.” Enjolras rubs at his shoulders, but doesn't take a step away from the wall or Grantaire, stays leaning back against it as he says, “You didn't come when I asked, you said _no_. Not even Joly or Courfeyrac could convince you and then this — this _government official_ is hurt and suddenly it's fine? It's okay to need us?”

“Are you jealous?” The thought is so absurd Grantaire can’t help but ask, “Of _Marius_?”

Enjolras glares back at him, sounding sullen as he says, “Do I have reason to be?”

Grantaire's mind is buzzing, his thoughts don’t seem to want to make sense. Is this why Enjolras has avoided him, ever since he arrived? Does he think Grantaire is working with Marius and the government? It would certainly explain some of the frowns Enjolras sent his way; his irrational hatred of Marius, and his refusal to help him. “I can't deal with this right now,” Grantaire says, and turns away.

He ends up looking at — _Christ_ , the others. Embarrassment floods through him at the realisation this whole thing was just _watched_ , that people saw them screaming at each other and just stood there awkwardly.

It's a sign that he's in too deep, that he needs to leave before things really boil over. Before they face what's really the issue between them.

“We're going,” Grantaire says, and reaches out for Marius. “Now.”

Marius looks down at his hand, then back up at him, but doesn't reach out to take it.

“Marius,” Grantaire says, his hand wavers.

“Grantaire—” but Marius doesn't get to finish the sentence, because there's a sudden explosion of noise from somewhere else in the sewers, and Jehan practically falls into the room, clutching at his side and gasping breathlessly.

“The government are here. They found us.”

\- - - - -

In an instant Enjolras is back to the ice cold mask, all sign of real, human emotion gone. He takes charge immediately, firing orders at Combeferre and Courfeyrac, efficiency personified. Someone - Courfeyrac - grabs hold of Grantaire in the commotion, drags him out of the room whilst he's still trying to process what the hell just happened. Up ahead Enjolras pulls his hood over his head, barking instructions at people as they pass. The red cowl is like a beacon in the darkness as the lights are extinguished and their feet pound on the concrete. Grantaire understands suddenly why they all wear black, when the Amis blend seamlessly into the shadows as they slip into the next layer of the sewers.

The thought occurs to him suddenly that this is his chance, he could escape now but fuck, where's Marius? He cranes his head around to look but in the darkness it's impossible to make anyone out. Up ahead there are screams and gunfire he should be running away from this, not towards. He tries to pull his hand out of Courfeyrac's grip but it's too late, as they round the corner and run straight into the battle.

His self-preservation instinct kicks in and he pulls his arm away from Courfeyrac, diving for the nearest bit of cover, behind some old construction signs surrounding a pitch-black hole in the floor of the concrete path. All around him are the sounds of people fighting: shouts and thuds and gurgles of pain. Each noise is caught and magnified by the tunnels, reverberating and echoing back from all directions at once, disorienting and terrifying to the senses.

Grantaire’s never been this close to the government before, to the officials he’s tried so hard to avoid. His heart thunders in his chest, his mind doing stupid calculations like working out how many bullets he actually has, how far away the nearest person is, how quickly he can pull out his gun, rather than facing up to the very real and very serious possibility that he may die here.

The government forces are about as well-equipped as the Amis are, carrying mismatched weapons and a variety of different shields from various police forces. It was a free-for-all in the years after the war, with people grabbing what they could and learning how to survive with it. The gun he holds was looted from a dead body on a highway littered with crashed cars. There had been ten bullets then, there are three left now.

“Move up,” a voice says, snapping him out of his thoughts, and Courfeyrac drops down next to him. There’s a trickle of blood running down from his temple, and something matted with blood and hair on the end of his baseball bat that Grantaire doesn’t even want to think about right now.

He shifts across to make room and says, “How many are there?”

“A bigger force than they usually send in,” Courfeyrac replies. He’s frowning, the usual good humour gone from his expression, replaced with something cold. It’s easy to forget, sometimes, that Courfeyrac is just as fearsome as Enjolras, a leader of the Amis in his own right. He brushes the blood away from his temple with the back of his hand. “We lost a couple when they first came in, we weren't prepared. They knew the entrance, it wasn’t a mistake.”

“What?” demands Grantaire, “How?” The entrances to the second layer of the sewers are a closely guarded secret. He only knew one because of Joly, who had once looked at him and said, ‘for when the time comes’.

“You don’t know?” asks Courfeyrac, turning to look at him, eyebrows raised.

“How would I know?” Grantaire demands, but his question is lost when someone appears suddenly above the construction sign. “Fuck,” he swears, and shoves his gun up to shoot. The bullet misses, but it surprises the government soldier enough that Grantaire can twist away and reach for his knife instead. They’re better for use at close quarters than guns are and when he slashes, he draws blood.

Taking cover always seems like a great idea, until you realise that things don’t work like how you imagine, that people don’t just leave you there safe and wait for you to break. Courfeyrac swings his baseball bat around; it connects with the man's head with a sickening crack, and he crumples forwards over the sign, blood dripping down onto the concrete.

Grantaire hauls himself to his feet and straight into the eyeline of another government soldier, who charges for him with what looks like a actual sword, what the fuck. He grabs the first thing he can: one of the metal signs. It’s not going to do any serious damage, not unless he starts swinging it like Courfeyrac's bat, but he can at least use it to stop the man getting any closer.

He holds it up like a sword himself, meeting each swing with screech of metal and a burst of steel splinters. He's suddenly extremely glad for short stick lessons, what feels like a lifetime ago, when weapons training had been a sport, not a necessity. He takes a step back with every parry, unable to close the distance to actually stab the man with the knife he still holds in his free hand.

He’s getting desperate by the time his heels hit the wall of the tunnel. Courfeyrac has disappeared back into the darkness and the fight; Grantaire has no idea where the others are and knows there’s no one to step in and save him.

“Give it up,” says the government soldier, “We know you have him. Give him back and this will end.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” demands Grantaire.  

“Can’t you see that being part of the resistance isn’t helping—”

“I’m not part of the resistance!”

It’s luck that saves him. The next swing of the guy’s sword nearly chops the sign in half — and gets stuck. Both Grantaire and the guy stare down at it in surprise, and Grantaire recalls himself faster. He punches the guy in the face with the hand holding his knife, feels bone and cartilage snap under his knuckles, the warm feeling of blood, but doesn’t hesitate, shoving the sign and stuck sword out of the way so he can grab hold of the guy’s shirt.

They go toppling to the floor, Grantaire on top, and he acts without thinking, curls his hands further into the man's shirt and uses it to pull him up then slam his head back against the concrete.

There is a sickening crack, the man’s eyes flutter — and then silence.

Grantaire leans over him, panting as the adrenaline leaves his body, his stomach churning. He killed a soldier, a government soldier, some person he had no real animosity towards and had never seen before. The man had been coming for him, would have killed him first, but it’s no comfort, not really. He staggers to his feet, wiping blood off his fingers onto his clothes. It’s not the first man he’s killed but it feels different, the whole situation isn’t right, he shouldn’t be here.

He can barely see in the darkness and the half-light spilling in from a grate high above to street level, but it looks like the Amis are winning. There are fewer government officials now, bodies slumped all around. He realises he’s gripping his knife so tightly his knuckles have gone white and moves to find cover in the darkness of an arch as he uncurls his fingers, feeling blood rushing back to his digits.

Then he hears a shout.

Enjolras is on his back in the tunnel, a government man crouching over him. The cowl has been pushed back from his face, his golden hair escapes, spilling across the concrete like sunlight. His breathing is harsh, there’s a bruise blooming over his cheek. He looks furious and vicious as he grapples with the man above him, trying to stop his throat from being cut.

Grantaire takes half a step towards him before he realises what’s he’s doing, his gun already pulled out to shoot, hands steady and sure. He could do it, he knows he could make the shot, it would be done and over in a minute and yet — and yet —

“Fuck, fuck,” he swears, and his hands start to shake. It's his worst fear, the one he's been training himself to forget. Enjolras's death, bright and sharp, so much closer and more present when he decided to take on the government head-on, instead of staying above ground and just trying to live.

The death Grantaire had pulled himself away from, and refused to face as he hid in the Musain and drank and drank and drank.

“Fuck,” he swears again, and takes the shot.

He doesn't get the chance to see if it hits, as pain suddenly explodes across the back of his head, something heavy and blunt smashing into his skull. He staggers forwards as pain screams through his nerves — and darkness swallows him.

\- - - - -

He startles awake suddenly, gasping in a breath.

He becomes aware of his surroundings all at once, and is surprised to find that he’s still alive. There are no restraints holding him down, which means he wasn't captured, but the pain across the back of his head is sharp and stings when he lifts it to look around and sit up.

“Hey, careful.” It’s Courfeyrac, reaching out to steady him as he tries to get out of the bed he’s lying on.

Grantaire turns and punches him straight in the jaw. It’s hard enough to send a jolt of pain up through his wrist, but his anger’s stronger than the pain. Courfeyrac swears and jerks back in his chair. His hand flies up to press against his skin, wincing, and he says, “Okay, I’m going to put that down to you—”

Grantaire doesn’t bother listening to him. He knew this was a bad idea, he knew he shouldn’t have come here. There’s a reason he stays far away from the revolution; he doesn’t care how bad the government is. He hauls himself out of the bed and takes stock. He’s still wearing exactly what he was when he first entered the sewers, but missing one important thing: his weapons.

“Where are they?” he asks, turning around on the spot to glare at Courfeyrac. He wants to get out of here and he wants to get out now.

“I’m sorry,” Courfeyrac says, “It was necessary. We can’t have you—”

“Where are they,” Grantaire repeats, flat.

“They’re not—” Courfeyrac cuts himself off. He chews his bottom lip for a second, frowning, then says, “It wasn’t my order.”

And doesn’t that make it all a whole lot clearer? It doesn’t make Grantaire feel any better, but it gives a target for his anger, focusing it. “I want to see him.”

“He’s busy, he’s in a meeting right now—”

“You think I _fucking_ care about some stupid meeting? Where is he? You know what, I’ll find him myself.”

“Grantaire—” Courfeyrac tries to grab his arm, but Grantaire just shrugs him off, already heading for the door. He hears Courfeyrac swear behind him and speeds up his strides, ducking out of the room. He emerges into another part of the sewers, but it’s hard to tell how far he’s been taken. The whole place looks the same, covered in concrete, damp and dark. He could be only feet away from the entrance, or miles under the city. He’s never been claustrophobic, but there’s something cloying about being this far under, without sunlight or air.

(Enjolras's hair, spread out across the concrete like sunlight, dark red blood, staining his hands, a man's body, lifeless and limp.)

Courfeyrac doesn’t try to stop him again, but doesn’t leave him, either, just follows at his heels as Grantaire storms through the rabbit warren that is the Amis stronghold. He has no real idea where he’s going, but after a while the tunnels start to look familiar. He recognises signs, broken pipes.

When he has his bearings, he heads straight for the room he saw Enjolras and the others planning to steal resources in, figuring it to be some sort of planning room.

Enjolras and Combeferre are talking when Grantaire enters, carry on talking even when the door slams against the wall from the force of his shove. Enjolras still has his outdoor gear on, but he’s lost the ridiculous red cowl. Free, his hair curls around his face, deceptively soft. The bruise Grantaire saw him receive blooms purple under the light, a spiderweb of blood under his skin. _He’s alive_ , is Grantaire’s first thought, and then the anger rushes back.

“Just what the fuck do you think you’re playing at?” he demands.

“Grantaire,” says Courfeyrac behind him, reaching out a hand to rest on his arm. Grantaire shrugs it off, takes another step forwards.

“Tell me now why I shouldn’t punch you in the face and finish what those soldiers started,” Grantaire snarls, eyes only for Enjolras, who doesn’t look surprised at all that he’s here, now that he thinks about it. Though what sane person would be, when they just sanctioned an order to deprive someone of the weapons that kept them safe when they were knocked out cold?

“Because if you lay a hand on Enjolras, you won’t take another breath,” Combeferre says calmly. He crosses his arms over his chest, an immovable force at Enjolras’s side. “Is this about your weapons?”

“Of course it’s about my fucking weapons, you fuck.”

“Enjolras doesn’t have your weapons,” Courfeyrac says from behind him, “Which you would know if you’d bothered to stick around and listen to me.”

“Oh, right, like I’m going to listen to you after you stole my weapons,” Grantaire responds waspishly, keeping his gaze firmly fixed on Enjolras, because he’s not stupid. Courfeyrac might have carried out the order, but there’s only one place it would have originated. Nothing happens within the Amis without Enjolras knowing, without his express permission.

“Your weapons are safe,” Enjolras says, “No one’s messed with them.”

“Oh, great, well I guess I’ll just get going then,” Grantaire replies, “I said ‘give them back’ you prick, not ‘where are they?’.”

“So you can shoot us in the back and escape with Marius?” Enjolras asks, voice flat, and everything goes silent. Grantaire is vaguely aware of the way Combeferre tenses and Courfeyrac’s sharp intake of breath from behind him, but it's nothing compared to the burning heat of his anger, making everything go red for a second.

Enjolras’s lips curve, not into the half-smile Grantaire had once seen but something decidedly unpleasant. He makes a dismissive sound at the back of his throat and turns away. “We distributed them when you were out. Incase you didn’t notice, there was a government force trying to kill us all.”

Grantaire seethes and clenches his hands into fists at his sides. “You gave my stuff to other people?”

“I thought it best,” says Combeferre, which finally makes Grantaire tear his eyes away from Enjolras.

“You?”

“Yes,” Combeferre replies, arching an eyebrow, “Me.”

“Why?”

“Like Enjolras said, we needed them, and you were… indisposed.”

“Indisposed,” Grantaire echoes.

Combeferre shrugs, and pushes his glasses back up his nose from where they’ve slipped. “We were fighting for our lives, the weapons were necessary, and I would rather not have a potential government ally wandering around the sewers armed.”

Grantaire actually chokes on his incredulity. “Potential government ally?”

“Oh, please,” says Enjolras, interjecting because it's clear he just can't help himself when it comes to thinking the worst of Grantaire, “You’re really going to pretend you didn’t know that Marius is Gillenormand’s missing grandson? You knew he was called Marius!”

“Lots of people are called Marius!”

“Lots of people who worked for the government?”

“It's a pretty common name!” Grantaire replies, “And, seriously, who would be dumb enough to use their real name if they were the missing son of a prominent government official?” He somehow, miraculously, gets a response out of that, a flicker of what is almost a smile from Enjolras. Courfeyrac muffles a laugh, and it makes Grantaire remember that they were all friends, once. They shouldn't be arguing about shit like this.

“Enjolras,” he says, on a sigh, intensely bone-tired of all the arguing. “You know he's not the evil government official you're making him out to be, or you’d never let the two of us walk free in here. You’d have killed us both if you thought we were actually from the government.”

“We wouldn’t have killed you,” Courfeyrac says gently.

“Unless you gave us reason to,” clarifies Combeferre, deadly serious, but Grantaire can't take his eyes away from Enjolras, who looks unhappy at the turn the conversation has taken. But then, he never did like death - not before, at least. It was a means to an end, but not one he took lightly.

“Just how bad is your opinion of us?” Enjolras asks, his tone considerably gentler than it had been before, though he’s not exactly on good ground, Grantaire thinks, when he just _stole his fucking weapons_. “We’re not going to kill you.”

“Do we have reason to?” asks Combeferre, and, Jesus, Grantaire seriously underestimated him. Combeferre is _definitely_ the most terrifying out of the three leaders of the Amis.

Courfeyrac has moved so he’s no longer stood behind him now, standing closer to Combeferre and Enjolras. Enjolras is positioned in the middle, as always, even when they’re not consciously thinking about it he’s in the centre. Courfeyrac and Combeferre like his angel and devil, logic and emotion, all three of them trying to decide if Grantaire is worth the trouble.

“That depends on what your plans are for Marius,” Grantaire replies, crossing his arms. He’s had enough of dancing around the subject; his priority here is Marius, and getting him back out of the headquarters alive.

Courfeyrac pauses, and then says, “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether he knew that the government was coming or not.”

“Whether he knew,” Grantaire repeats incredulously, “At what point? When he was dying? When he was unconscious as Joly tried to save his life? When he was awake and talking to us in Joly’s room?”

“You have to admit that it’s suspicious,” Enjolras cuts in, “Marius turns up at our door and suddenly the government storms the sewers and knows exactly where one of our entrances is?”

“The government is always conducting raids,” Grantaire points out, annoyed. “They’re always trying to flush you guys out.”

“But they’ve never found the inner tunnels before,” Courfeyrac replies, gesturing at the table Enjolras and Combeferre are stood behind. Huge blueprints are spread across it, pinned down at each edge with heavy rocks. They must be the city plans from years ago, when the sewers were first constructed.

Over the top of the original plans new colours have been sketched, and it takes Grantaire a moment to work them out, to understand that the different colours stand for different levels, the inner sanctum of the Amis and the outer one of their supporters. There’s a huge, ugly black cross scrawled across one entrance, the one the government must have entered last night.

“It wasn’t Marius,” Grantaire says, starting to sound like a broken record. Why won't they just _listen_ to him?

“I know,” Courfeyrac says gently, “And that’s why he’s still alive.”

“But why I’m unarmed,” says Grantaire, as the dots start to connect, “So I can’t get him out of here before you work out how the government got in.”

Courfeyrac smiles grimly. Combeferre continues to frown, unimpressed. Grantaire doesn't even want to look at Enjolras, so he look instead at the blueprints. “I don't know how he would have gotten information to them. He's been out this entire time, and I assume you've had him under close supervision.” He doesn't need to glance up at Enjolras for confirmation, but he does it anyway.

“He’s spent most of his time with Joly,” replies Enjolras, “And you.”

“Most of his time knocked out,” Grantaire points out, “And anyway, it's not like I've spent all my time with him. I’ve spent time out of that hospital room. I don't know what he was doing after he regained consciousness, it's not like I have him _tracked_.”

Enjolras's eyes widen. It's been years, but Grantaire still knows that expression. Mirrors it on his own face as he stares back and says, “You think he's been—?”

“Of course,” says Enjolras, “It makes sense.” He shoves some of the blueprints and plans across the table with one hand, rooting around in a drawer underneath with the other. He pulls out a handful of wires and earpieces, dumping them in the recently-created space. Courfeyrac and Combeferre are staring, Grantaire ignores them both as he helps Enjolras sort through the wires, untangling the ones that he wants. Their hands brush for a second and then Enjolras is pulling out a set of headphones, identical to the ones Grantaire saw Jehan with.

Enjolras pulls them on over his curls, pulls the mic in front of his mouth and says, “Jehan, shut it down. Shut everything down. They're transmitting.” He frowns as he listens to what Jehan has to say in the other end of the line then says, “I don't care, there will have to be no show tonight. It's that or they find us.”

He listens to a few more words and then nods, pulling the headphones back down to hang around his neck. “Where's Marius?” he asks Grantaire.

“I assume he’s still with Joly. Unless something happened when I was out.”

Enjolras nods and starts walking without another word, Grantaire falling automatically into step with him, already thinking ahead, reaching for his knife before he remembers that it was taken from him. There’s a flicker of anger, quickly squashed, he's too preoccupied with Marius and the tracker that had to be hiding somewhere on his body.

They get to Joly's room a few minutes later and Grantaire pushes past Enjolras to be the first one inside. They're not the only ones there, Joly is talking quietly to two people in clothing similar to the Amis’, those who must have been hurt when the government broke in.

Marius stands in the middle of the room, holding several bandages and wrappings. He looks up in surprise as they enter, his mouth already forming Grantaire's name. Grantaire looks around for something sharp instead of replying, and spots the knife on Enjolras's hip. “Gonna need this,” he says, fingers sure as they slip into the material holding it up. Enjolras glances across at him, taking in a breath, and then Grantaire pulls away with the knife.

Marius's eyes widen when he advances, and he looks around desperately for somewhere to put the things he's holding. “Keep still,” says Grantaire, “This won't take a minute.”

“What?” Marius sounds terrified. It's probably a logical reaction to seeing someone advancing with a knife.

Grantaire grabs hold of his hair, jerks Marius's head down to expose the back of his neck. He presses his thumb to the skin, feels Marius's pulse rabbiting underneath as he traces it up the side of his neck to behind his ear. He closes his eyes as he feels, trying to concentrate, and even so he almost misses it.

“Is it there?” Enjolras asks, at his side. A warm body that sends Grantaire back years, to a kitchen in the husk of what had once been someone's home, Combeferre leaning forwards over the sink. Blood and a tracker.

( _“Get it out, before they find me, it has to go.”_ )

“Got it,” says Grantaire and lifts the knife. Marius, seeing it, starts to struggle, Grantaire tightens the hand in his hair. “Hold still.” On _still_ he digs the point of the knife into Marius's skin, twists up and slices and — “There.”

He drops the bloody circuit into Enjolras's open palm and releases Marius, who whirls away from him, a hand coming up to behind his ear. He stares at Grantaire in shock, betrayal written all over his face, and then he notices the thing Enjolras is holding. “What's that?”

“It's a tracker,” says Combeferre, stepping forwards. He must have followed them when they left the planning room. He takes the circuit from Enjolras's palm, turns it over in his own. There's a blinking green light on one side. “They used to have them in the army, to stop you from going AWOL. Not many of them left in the world. Most were destroyed during the war—the soldiers took them out when they didn't want to fight any more, damn the consequences.”

He flips it over again and holds it up to the light, looking thoughtful.

“Why did I have one?” asks Marius. His voice is rising, he sounds short of breath. Grantaire looks across to him, concerned, and reaches out to touch his arm in reassurance. Marius pulls away before he can get a grip and says to Combeferre, “Did you put that in me whilst I was dying?”

“What? No, of course not,” says Combeferre, “I've not seen one of these in years. We don't have this sort of technology - at least, we didn't.” He looks down at the tracker meditatively, pressing the circuit between thumb and forefinger. Now that Grantaire can see it properly, he can see it's no bigger than the size of a thumb nail, thin as paper. Under Marius's skin he'd barely felt it at all, it's no wonder Joly had missed it.

“Then who—” Marius starts to say, cutting himself off when his mind jumps to the logical conclusion. “My grandfather? You're saying he had me tracked?”

“It’s entirely plausible,” says Enjolras. He's crossed his arms over his chest, there’s a fleck of blood on the edge of one of his fingers. Grantaire realises belatedly he's still holding his knife and looks down at where his fingers are wrapped around the hilt. He hadn't even thought about what he was doing, acting on instinct. He could have nicked an artery in Marius’s throat and he hadn’t even hesitated, just grabbed the nearest weapon, straight from Enjolras’s body.

—And Enjolras hadn't stopped him. Despite taking away all of his weapons and arguing that he was a risk, he'd let Grantaire take a knife straight off his body without a word of protest.

“Probably when you were much younger,” Enjolras is saying, when Grantaire shakes his way out of his thoughts. “Which is why you don't remember it happening. It's a safety precaution, a way to make sure that you're safe and alive - and always where he wants you to be.”

“So why didn’t he follow me to the Musain?” asks Marius. “If he knew I was there.”

Grantaire has an idea, but he bites down on his tongue so he doesn’t voice it. Gillenormand seems the type to make the most out of every situation, to twist whatever he can to his advantage. His own grandson had left the government, a grandson he’d implanted a tracker in, and yet he _somehow_ hadn’t been able to track him down until Marius found his way into the heart of the Ami headquarters?

Combeferre shrugs. “These things aren’t perfect, and technology isn’t what it used to be. There’s a chance he wasn’t able to narrow down your location until now. It takes work.”

Combeferre knows the trackers better than anyone. And yet Grantaire’s thoughts remain dark. His natural distrust of others refuses to believe that Gillenormand didn’t have more of an ulterior motive behind this.

“But you know how they work, yeah?” asks Courfeyrac, and Grantaire looks up from the knife at the sound of his voice. Courfeyrac looks _excited_ , full of energy; never a good sign. As Grantaire watches, Courfeyrac takes the tracker from Combeferre. “Do you know what sort of fun we could have with this?”

There’s a subtle shift in the room, Enjolras finally stops frowning at Marius. Grantaire looks between the three leaders of the Amis, who appear to be having some sort of conversation without words, a conversation he has no idea how to follow. Combeferre frowns, Enjolras looks thoughtful. Courfeyrac’s eagerness grows.

“You're not going to just destroy it?” Grantaire asks, half-expecting to be ignored completely.

“Of course not,” replies Courfeyrac, speaking for the three of them. “We're going to raise a little hell.” He claps Marius on the shoulder, Marius flinches. Grantaire’s hands curl into fists at his sides.

“So, Marius,” says Enjolras, “How do you feel about being dragged all over the city by us?”

“Um,” says Marius.

\- - - - -

“I do not agree with this,” Grantaire states.

Gavroche beams up at him, reckless and incorrigible and so, so young. There's a bandage behind his ear, and underneath it a certain piece of circuitry that keeps up a steady blink in time with his heartbeat.

“You're the one who brought him to our world,” points out Courfeyrac, whose stupid idea this was in the first place. Grantaire refuses to look at him, or even acknowledge that he's spoken. “You gave him the entrance.”

Which is true, but he only gave Gavroche the entrance to get Joly, so they could stop Marius from dying, not to make Gavroche into an Ami.

“It's cool,” says Gavroche, “I'm happy to do it. Fuck the police and all that.”

Grantaire crosses his arms over his chest, unimpressed. He knows full-well that Gavroche is happy to do it, what bothers him is that the Amis are prepared to let him. He’s a teenager, he doesn’t understand danger, he’s not as scared of the government as they know to be.

Joly finishes checking that the bandage patch is secure and then straightens, stepping away from behind Gavroche. “All good,” he says, and Gavroche jumps off the table onto the floor.

“You're going to get him killed,” states Grantaire. Joly doesn't even flinch.

“Gavroche has been running rings around government soldiers since he was a boy. Running around them with a tracker isn't going to make any difference.”

“Aside from making it easier for them to find him.”

“Let them find me,” says Gavroche, with bravado that makes Grantaire's heart sink. “I'll show them what for.”

“No,” states Courfeyrac, though he’s half-smiling, and for fuck’s sake he’s supposed to be the one who actually cares, the beating heart at the centre of the Amis. Or at least, that’s what Grantaire always assumed, until he saw Courfeyrac suggest Gavroche for this very job.

“Your mission is to keep them on the run, and away from our actual headquarters,” Courfeyrac says. “They catch you and they'll know you're not Marius - and they will _not_ be happy.”

Gavroche's bottom lip comes out in what is almost a pout, surly and petulant, but he doesn't try to argue. “Fine,” he says, “My lot will get me out if anything goes wrong.”

Grantaire trusts Gavroche’s orphans about as far as he can throw them, but then he is an adult and so, to them, the enemy. He knows little about Gavroche's little band of lost boys - and girls - beyond that they have no family to speak of but each other, and survive in the spaces between breaths, in shadows and corners and secrets. Gavroche is their de facto leader, but how far that loyalty stretches, Grantaire isn’t sure.

“You know where to find us,” Joly says gently, “If you need us.”

Gavroche nods and flips the collar of his black jacket up; he's unknowingly started to mirror the Amis uniform. Grantaire won't be surprised if he turns up one day with a red cowl of his own. He’s is a step away from leaving when Grantaire grabs his upper arm, gripping tight when he tries to dart away.

“Nice try. But you're going out the way you came in.”

Gavroche glares at him but Grantaire doesn’t let go. He’s not stupid. Give Gavroche an inch and he’ll take a mile; the secrets of the Amis headquarters won’t be kept long from him, if he’s allowed to find the exit himself.

Grantaire steers him back into the tunnels with a firm grip on his arm, one Gavroche clearly resents, but knows better than to fight. They follow the same route back to the entrance, the same one Grantaire already told Gavroche, back at the Musain. Still, Gavroche’s dark eyes catalogue all that he sees, his body restless, constantly twisting and turning to take it all in.

They’re out of sight of Joly’s hospital room when Gavroche speaks, still craning his head to look at the other tunnels as they pass.

“Ep misses you. Not that she'd admit it, of course.”

Her name brings a pang of regret, makes Grantaire think of the Musain and home. “Tell her I miss her too.”

“You're not coming back with me?”

“I can't.”

Gavroche blinks and finally turns to look at him, frowning like he's talking another language. “Why not?”

“Because—” Grantaire starts to answer, and then pauses. He came here for Marius, to keep watch over him whilst Joly healed the septic wound in his side, with the plan always being to leave when Marius was healthy again, which he is — and yet.

It takes him a moment to come up with a reason. The Amis have his weapons, he can't leave without them, not when he knows the Amis won’t take too kindly to him taking Marius and just leaving. The only thing he has is the knife at his side, Enjolras's knife. He can’t escape with just that.

“It's not as easy as just leaving,” he says, and wishes he could explain more. But that way lies old ghosts and monsters, past history he doesn’t really want to drag up.

Gavroche’s frown deepens, looking unconvinced. Grantaire just tightens his grip and keeps walking, not wanting to talk about it. It’s not him they should be talking about, but Gavroche’s own safety. His decision to get involved properly with the Amis.

When they’re only a few feet away from the entrance he pulls Gavroche into an alcove built into one of the tunnels, finally releasing his arm but crouching down to keep the exit blocked by his body. He searches Gavroche’s face for something he knows he won't find and then says, gently, “I can take the tracker out, if you want. Before we get to the exit. You don’t have to do this.”

Gavroche snorts and tosses his head, teenage bravado. But Grantaire’s known him for years, he can see the nervousness just flitting at the edge of his expression. “Gav, seriously, this is dangerous, and I'm not fucking around. That tracker will bring down the wrath of the government on you, and the Amis aren't going to be there to bail you out.”

“I know,” says Gavroche, stubborn, digging the toes of one boot into the ground. “But it's something.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Amis. They're trying to make a difference, yeah? And they're succeeding. People listen to them, I know they do, I've heard. I see the kind of things they're doing, and I want to help, I want to do that. My kids, the orphans, you think they're gonna last long?”

It’s exactly the response Grantaire expected, and it’s not. He can’t help but admire the part of Gavroche that thinks there can be something more, something better. The part of him that wants to protect children he has no real responsibility for.

Most people in this world are selfish, only looking out for themselves. Gavroche’s words make Grantaire look at him anew: a teenager far older than his years. “You can't save everyone, Gavroche.”

“But I can at least try.” He sounds frustrated, he digs his toe harder into the concrete as he turns his head to look at Grantaire, sharp as a blade as he says, “And at least I'm doing something, not just drinking it all away and pretending the world doesn't exist.”

Grantaire clenches his hands into fists, trying to ignore the flash of shame that runs through him.

“I’ve always known you knew the Amis,” Gavroche carries on, “I know you all think I don't remember much from that time, but I do. I remember when you came to the Musain with them, were _one_ of them, and then they all left and you stayed. Why did you stay? Why didn't you join them? You know where the entrance is, you told me where it’s located yourself. They obviously _want_ you here so why did you say no?”

Grantaire sighs and scrubs a hand over his face as he closes his eyes, thinking. He doesn't want to talk about this, has avoided talking about it for so long he doesn’t even know where to start. When he lowers his hand, brushing the back of it against the stubble of his chin, it's to say, “I had my reasons.”

Gavroche looks at him for a beat, and then away, disappointment clear on his face. It shouldn't bother Grantaire so much that Gavroche's opinion of him has lowered, but it does.

He tries for reassuring when he says, “One day I'll explain it to you.”

“Yeah, sure,” says Gavroche. He doesn't look at him. “Can we go now?”

Grantaire sighs and straightens, steps back to allow Gavroche into the tunnel. Gavroche shoulders past him and heads off without another word, stays two strides ahead for the rest of the walk to the door. Once there Gavroche doesn’t even hesitate, just nods once at Bahorel where he stands guarding the entrance, then slips past him and disappears into the sewers beyond.

Grantaire watches him go until the echoing sound of his footsteps fades, then looks at Bahorel, casually positioned so he can stop him from doing something stupid like trying to follow. No doubt he’s had strict instructions to make sure Grantaire doesn’t follow Gavroche into the world beyond. Bahorel’s knuckle dusters glint in the pale yellow light of a beam overhead.

“You alright?” he asks.

“I need a fucking drink,” replies Grantaire.

\- - - - -

Joly’s busy when Grantaire finds him, in a hospital room out in the second layer. There are more people here than Grantaire’s seen before, these must be the people who live in the sewers with the Amis, their supporters.

They all have injuries, patched up and bandaged in varying degrees. They must have borne the brunt of the government invasion, been in the part of the sewers the soldiers had found because of Marius’s tracker. Grantaire hesitates just inside the room and is spotted.

“Grantaire,” calls out Joly, “Pass me that box.”

Grantaire looks to where Joly’s pointing, finds a box with mismatched medical supplies inside and carries it over. He’s barely within arms reach when Joly takes it from him, begins rooting through the tubs, muttering and swearing under his breath.

Across the room Grantaire spots Combeferre helping to patch people up. Both he and Joly look exhausted; Grantaire wonders how long they have been working, trying to heal people with only meagre supplies. And what about those who didn’t make it? Where are the bodies, the remains of the people who died?

He has a flash, suddenly, an image of a head hitting back against the concrete and going limp and he has to close his eyes fiercely to try and get rid of it. He needs alcohol, something to dull the memory, the sight of someone’s death at his own hands.

When he opens his eyes again Joly is looking at him, concern clear on his face. “Grantaire?”

“I’m fine,” he lies, “I’m fine. What do you need?”

Working with Joly will take his mind off what’s in his head, the images he doesn’t want to see. He rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and sets to work, pretends he doesn’t see the looks Joly sends him, every few minutes or so.

He knows, of course, that Joly was a doctor before the world went to hell. But he doesn’t expect him to still be a doctor, now. In the years after the wars, most people learned how to survive by themselves, himself included. Yet here all these people are, waiting for someone to clean their wounds, or give them a tablet, to take away the pain for them.

Medicine is scarce, there aren’t exactly factories out there keeping up with supply and demand, yet here the Amis are, running some sort of one-room hospital. The idea of giving out medicine so freely, when he and Eponine have hoarded their small supplies so carefully, just feels wrong.

He’s been living by himself for so long now that he can’t understand the need to help others. Surely the Amis would be in a better position if they kept all the supplies to themselves, rather than helping these people who by all rights, should be able to help themselves. And it’s exhausting, it’s draining, there’s always someone else who wants to be helped.

Grantaire can see it in Joly’s expression, every person he tends to seems to take something from him, something that makes him look sad around the edges.

“You don’t have to do this,” Grantaire says to him, when it gets too much and he’s watching Joly’s expression fall as he tends to a young girl, no older than Gavroche. “They can survive without you, if they’d just learn to look after themselves.”

“It’s not a weakness,” says Joly, “To need someone else.”

“Who said anything about needing?” asks Grantaire, and frowns. Joly glances back over his shoulder to arch an eyebrow at him, and Grantaire’s frown deepens. “Me? I don’t need anyone.”

“Who said I was talking about you?” Joly counters, and turns back to the girl he’s helping, squeezing her hand in his to be reassuring. She hops down from the counter with his help, her depth perception skewed by the patch she wears over one eye. The skin at the edge of the patch is puckered, pulling tight over an ugly-looking wound that must cut straight across her eyelid. She rights herself carefully then lets go of Joly’s hand, they both watch as she walks over to the door.

“Some people are more in need than others,” says Joly, “And that’s not a bad thing.”

Grantaire glances sideways at him, “People like Marius, you mean.”

“In part,” replies Joly, and shrugs, “But even the strongest of us need help too, sometimes. Marius didn’t get here by himself.”

No, he didn’t. The memory of that walk will haunt Grantaire for the rest of his life, the stuttered sounds of Marius’s breathing, the limpness of his body against him. “Yeah,” he admits, “But, I’m not trained in medicine, I never was. We didn’t have the things we needed to help him.”

“Exactly,” says Joly, quietly triumphant, “You needed us.”

Grantaire hadn’t really thought about it that way, at the time. He’d been a little too preoccupied with the fact Marius was dying, and also with how Eponine had looked, the disappointment in her eyes that said it was all his fault. He’d always thought of himself as self-sufficient, never needing anyone else, never relying on other people to help.

“And now Marius is alive,” Joly continues ,“And out helping others, in fact. He’s gone to see what he can scavenge for me in the way of supplies. We’re running low, as you can tell.” He looks out at the rest of the room, and Grantaire does too, at the injured people Joly refuses to turn away, all those who rely on the Amis for the safety. Far more people than they have supplies for, or likely ever will.

Even with the addition of Grantaire’s help they can’t possibly heal all of these people. There are wounds that are never going to heal, bones that won’t quite set right. And yet Combeferre and Joly continue to work tirelessly. The futility of it makes Grantaire’s head hurt, he doesn't want to be here.

And yet he stays, and he helps, and things thaw between him and Joly, a little.

\- - - - -

“So,” says Courfeyrac. “You and Enjolras.”

“I'm not talking to you.”

“I mean, I always knew you had the hots for him, everyone did.”

“Seriously? Fuck off.”

“But that argument about Marius, that did not seem like an argument between old friends.”

Grantaire looks up finally to glare at Courfeyrac, who lounges in the doorway to Joly's hospital room, bright as day. Four days have passed since his argument with Enjolras, long enough that Grantaire was starting to think everyone had forgotten it. Surely they had better things to occupy their thoughts.

Not Courfeyrac, apparently.

Grantaire sighs and says, “That’s probably because Enjolras and I weren’t ever friends.”

“Fine, two people who survived the end of the world together — and maybe... Something more?”

Grantaire just fixes him with his best unimpressed look.

“I'm sorry about Gavroche,” says Courfeyrac, and actually sounds genuine. He then ruins it by adding, “But it was his choice. We didn't make him do anything.”

“Oh, my God,” says Grantaire, and strides further away from the door and Courfeyrac, down the counter to where the extra medical supplies are kept. He takes a box out and begins to passive-aggressively sort through it. “I'm not fucking discussing this - or that—” he adds, meaning the Enjolras stuff, “—with you.”

“Then will you at least talk about something else with me?” Courfeyrac asks, pushing himself away from the door and following him over to the counter. “Anything, I don't care what. Ever since you got here all you've talked about is how much you want to leave and don't want to be here and now Marius is all you care about—”

“I don't care about Mariu—”

“And it's like wow, Grantaire, do you really hate us all that much? It's been five years, I get it, but—”

“I don't hate you, what the hell?” Grantaire interjects, and actually throws his hands up into the air. This is what he has been driven to, he is acting like the teenager Gavroche never is. “I've never hated you. I'm pissed at you, there's a difference, I just wish you would all learn that.”

Courfeyrac frowns, but his expression softens also, like he's sad at the turn the conversation has taken. “Will you at least talk to Enjolras?” he asks, which is the absolute last thing Grantaire expected him to say.

“What?”

“He's making my life hell, and Combeferre's too, and everyone's noticed it. If you two would just talk, and stop circling each other like extremely blood-thirsty sharks who can't decide if they want to eat each other or something else—”

“For the _last time_ —”

“—then we could all get back to our lives and, you know, destroying the government and all that.”

“Destroying the government and all that,” Grantaire echoes, because it's honestly the only thing he can think of to say, after that. Giving up on pretending to sort through the medical supplies, he turns to face Courfeyrac, leaning one hip against the edge of the counter.

Courfeyrac grins at him. “Yeah, well, Enjolras does the speeches. I'm just the pretty face.” He shrugs, completely unashamed. “So will you talk to him?”

Grantaire presses his hand over his eyes. “If I talk to him will you go away?”

“Absolutely.”

“Until you want to bug me about something else.”

Courfeyrac presses a hand against his heart. “You know me so well.”

\- - - - -

It takes Grantaire several days to work up to actually talking to Enjolras. He sees him enough, walking around the sewers, stride always strong and purposeful as he makes his way to some meeting or another, talking to the others, head bent and thoughtful as he listens carefully to each word, but seeing him doesn't make it any easier. Seeing him just makes Grantaire's heart speed up and his palms go clammy and seriously, it's all just a bit fucking ridiculous. He's a grown man, he's 28. Not 22 and wishing Enjolras would look at him twice.

Enjolras is never alone, however. He's always surrounded by others, in the centre of things, making plans, destroying world order. There’s no time for a ghost from his past.

When Grantaire finally does find him alone it's by accident, when he's trying to find his way back to the room he’s been assigned and turns a wrong corner - or two, or twenty, it's hard to tell, down here in the gloom - and comes across a place he’s never been in before.

He hears Enjolras before he sees him, grunts and heavy breathing that sends him right back. His brain screams at him to leave before he sees, but the alcohol in his system from the wine bottle dangling from his fingertips keeps him going. The tunnel widens at the end of a slope, leading the way into a wide open space. High up in the ceiling are grates to the surface, and actual sunlight pours through onto the ground. The gaps where water used to run have been covered up by planks of wood, suspended between the concrete paths. It's turned the intersect between two tunnels into one large, cavernous room, and Enjolras stands at the centre of it all.

He's wearing his black outside gear, his hair hidden by the stupid red cowl. In his hands is a long thin stick, he swings it around like a scythe as he steps forwards. His movements are precise, controlled—

( _“Careful, Apollo, you're going to take someone's head off if you keep swinging that thing around like that.”_

_“I just don't see the point, why do I even need to learn how to do this?”_

_“You think guns are going to last forever? Who’s going to make the bullets? Look, come here, stop swinging it around. I'll show you.”_ )

—and he doesn't notice Grantaire at all, not until he turns sharply, arm snapping out in a lunge, and they come face to face. The stick hovers an inch from Grantaire’s throat.

Enjolras's chest rises and falls with his breathing, Grantaire's fingers tighten in the neck of the wine bottle. He sees Enjolras's eyes drop to it, a displeased curve to his lips, and then he's tilting his head back, resting the stick on his shoulder as he says, “Grantaire.”

It feels like a rebuke and a sigh and a reluctant greeting at once, and all Grantaire wants to do is shake him. Instead, he lifts the bottle to his lips, deliberately provoking, and takes a long swig.

“Are you busy?” he asks after swallowing, wiping the back of his mouth with his hand.

Enjolras's eyes track the movement of his hand. He shrugs one shoulder and replies, “Clearly.”

“Well, tough,” replies Grantaire, setting the bottle down, “We're talking. Courfeyrac told me to be civil.”

Enjolras arches an eyebrow at that, then turns his body and picks up another stick from the rack by the wall, throwing the one he already holds to Grantaire in one fluid motion. Unprepared, Grantaire fumbles, nearly dropping it in his attempt to catch hold.

“Then you'll spar with me as we do it,” Enjolras states.

Grantaire looks down at the stick in his hand then back up, “Seriously? You take away all my weapons and then let me have this?”

“I didn't take them all away,” Enjolras replies, and his gaze lingers for a second on the knife hanging by Grantaire's hip. The holder for which currently hangs empty on Enjolras's own side, a holder Grantaire had just reached into without thinking, easy as breathing. When he presses his fingertips together he can still remember the feel of Enjolras’s — wine, he needs more wine.

He looks about for the bottle again and stoops to grab it, his fingers just curling around the neck when a stick comes down sharply against his knuckles, hard enough to send a jolt of pain up his arm. “Ow, what the fuck, what was that for?” he demands, and is rewarded with another hard hit, to the forearm this time.

“Fuck you,” he snarls, the wine completely forgotten as he twists the stick in his own grasp and turns his body, blocking Enjolras's next attempt at a hit. Enjolras doesn’t hesitate, just moves easily into his next attack as Grantaire steps back and twists his body away.

He quickly realises that he's out of shape, that it's been far too long since he last did this. Five years spent drinking in the Musain has done him no favours, his movements feel sluggish,, his muscles heavy in his arms. In comparison, Enjolras is as quick as lighting, moving around him with footsteps that make no sound on the mismatched wooden beams. No sooner has Grantaire blocked a hit than he's making another, always thinking two or three steps ahead.

“Christ, Enjolras, what's your problem?” Grantaire demands a while later, when his body is covered in a thin sheen of sweat and he’s struggling to breathe. Of course Enjolras looks as perfect as ever, like he just took a leisurely walk down a beach, the git.

Instead of replying, Enjolras swings his stick around again, a hit that would surely have made Grantaire see stars, if he didn’t manage to dodge away in time. “I have many problems,” he says, in a tone that implies Grantaire is at least 90% of them. “Be more specific.”

“Is this usually how you talk to people?” Grantaire says instead, taking a step back then twisting his body, a move that lowers his centre of gravity enough he can get a solid hit in against Enjolras's side. It connects with the padding of his black outfit and does no harm whatsoever, because of-fucking- _course_.

“You were the one who wanted to talk,” Enjolras replies, calm and infuriating.

“Yeah, because Courfeyrac insisted - oh, fuck this,” he says, and gives up on fighting respectably. He gets one foot hooked behind Enjolras's ankle and tugs, his free hand coming up in a fist into Enjolras’s stomach as he falls forward. Enjolras rights himself at the last moment and over-corrects to avoid Grantaire’s punch, crashing into him hard enough to send them both staggering instead.

Grantaire only just manages to stop himself from smashing into the wall of the tunnel, mostly by grabbing hold of Enjolras and holding tight, but it's worth it to see a flare of surprise in Enjolras's eyes. “What?” he asks, as he shoves Enjolras’s body away, “None of your normal partners fight dirty?”

“I don't spar with anyone,” Enjolras replies, which makes Grantaire blink and hesitate for a second, enough time for Enjolras to regain his wits and whip his stick around with enough force to break bone. Grantaire swears and steps back, pulling his own stick up sharply, and feels the vibration as they collide down through to his bones.

“Too good for the lesser mortals now?” he retorts, ignoring the scream of his muscles as they hold their sticks up against each other, each leaning their entire weight into the deadlock. “Couldn't possibly show them any sign of human weakness?”

“No one can keep up.”

A laugh startles its way out of Grantaire. He can see why; it's been five minutes and he's stronger than Enjolras - broader in chest and in shoulder, if not height - but he's been on the back foot that whole time, knows he's lost even if Enjolras hasn’t yet knocked him out.

“I can — see why,” he says between gritted teeth, and finally gives up on the stalemate, throwing his body instead to one side. It causes him to practically fall forwards, but it has the added bonus of making Enjolras stagger, and so he kicks his own leg back as he stumbles, feeling a rush of satisfaction when it connects with the back of Enjolras's knee.

Grantaire lands hard on his own heels, half-crouched, an impact that jars his knees. Behind him he hears Enjolras swear as he almost crashes into the wall.

“So what did you want to talk about?” Enjolras asks, when he rights himself. He holds his stick in one hand loosely, his breathing much calmer than Grantaire's. The only difference is that a few loose curls have escaped from his cowl, tumble over one shoulder into the light, a faint blush of colour, high on his cheeks.

“I didn't," Grantaire replies, watching him warily, straightening his body and waiting for the next attack. “Courfeyrac sent me. He thinks we need to talk.”

Enjolras huffs out what is almost a laugh. “Courfeyrac is having ideas.”

“He doesn't usually?”

“No,” Enjolras replies, with a thrust of his stick. It's not as strong as the others, Grantaire blocks it easily. “At least, not of this nature. He thinks I'm distracted.” He says the word darkly, like there's no way in hell he could ever be torn away from his cause.

Grantaire knows from experience that he really can't be. He's tried.

“Wait,” Enjolras says, circling closer. “So you don't actually want to talk?”

“No.”

“Then why are you here?”

Enjolras swings out at him again, Grantaire blocks before he answers, “I told you already, Courfeyrac sent me.”

“But you never do what other people want, you never do as you're told.” Enjolras finally seems to be getting tired, he's making stupid little mistakes, allowing Grantaire to regain more ground as he steps forwards, moving him towards the centre of the room. They step in and out of the shadows between the beams of sunlight as they go.

“Of course not,” says Grantaire, “I'm not some sort of robot to be ordered around. He asked, and I decided to do it.”

Enjolras looks like this is a novel concept, asking for someone's permission before doing something. He blocks another of Grantaire's hits, but it’s a feint, as he shoves both of their arms up and steps forwards, locking his stick with Grantaire’s to hold it in place above their heads. “And Marius?”

“And Marius what?” asks Grantaire, far quieter than he intended. He hasn’t been this close to Enjolras in years, can see the little lines around his eyes that weren't there before, marks of age, the faint purple of his fading bruise across his cheek, feels his chest rising and falling in time with his heart.

“Did Marius ask?” Enjolras's voice is quieter now too. His eyes search his face as he speaks.

“What?” It takes a moment for Grantaire to realise what he means, what he's asking. “No, of course not. Éponine roped me into looking after him. I gave her my word.”

“So, what, that’s all it took? Éponine asked and you looked after him?”

“Yes?”

Enjolras steps forwards suddenly, pushing forward with a force Grantaire hadn’t even known he was capable of. Somehow, Enjolras gets a leg behind him, stopping him from stepping back to right himself, causing his knees buckle he goes over backward. Panic seizes Grantaire’s chest and he drops the stick as he loses sight of gravity, grabbing hold of Enjolras’s jacket to right himself, but the material is tight and doesn’t give, his fingers curling uselessly instead around the cowl as he falls.

He lands, hard, on the wooden floor, pain shooting through his back as he sees stars, everything going completely black for one terrifying second. Enjolras lands on top of him, knees bracketing his hips, holding his stick across Grantaire’s neck. Without the cowl to hold it back his hair falls forwards over his shoulders, curling around his face, the ends of his curls brush Grantaire’s chest.

“Shit,” swears Grantaire. He feels like he can’t breathe, bloody hell. “Get off me,” he snaps, struggling, “Get the _fuck_ off me.”

But Enjolras doesn’t move, just presses his weight forward, the stick across his windpipe keeping Grantaire pinned to the ground. He’s finally discarded the icy mask, the calm persona he’s had ever since they started sparring. He breathes heavily, each breath rippling through his entire body, colour high on his cheeks.

“Why did you finally come here?” he asks, barely withheld fury Grantaire has no idea how he’s provoked, “After _five_ years.”

“Get off me,” Grantaire repeats, struggling. He gets his hands on Enjolras’s hips, digs his fingers in hard, tries to use the leverage to shove him away but gets nowhere, when Enjolras shifts his weight and presses down harder on the stick across his windpipe.

_“Why?”_

“Why does it matter?” Grantaire manages to grind out, “Why do you care?”

Enjolras is terrifying; wrath sharpens his features and darkens his eyes. Grantaire always liked him best like this, driven and focused and past the point of caring, when all that came out was pure emotion, scorching anything in its path. But it was a rare incident that could make him this serious - or this deadly.

“I have spent the last _five years_ trying to work out why you wouldn’t come,” Enjolras practically snarls, “What I said or what I didn’t to keep you, what kept you in the Musain when we came down here. Trying to figure out what could possibly be so important you refused to leave — yet the moment a government official needed us you came instantly—”

Grantaire’s whole body feels numb; his eyesight goes fuzzy at the edges with the lack of oxygen. “Marius was dying!”

“You think none of us came close to dying?” Enjolras demands, and his grip on the stick tightens “You think we’ve never put our lives in danger for the revolution?” he asks, like he’s trying to guilt him, like it’s Grantaire’s fault they’re all on the run from the government and wanted as terrorists in the city, like he hadn’t _warned them that this very thing would happen._

“That’s the whole point!” he yells, and something shifts in Enjolras’s expression, making him lean back just slightly, lessening his grip on the stick so it’s no longer a pressure point on Grantaire’s throat, just holding him down. Stopping him from escaping.

“You’re all going to die, don’t you get that?” Grantaire asks, and it’s an old argument, such an old argument, and one he doesn’t want to have again. His voice goes hoarse. “You’re so obsessed with your _stupid_ revolution you’re putting everyone’s lives in danger - look at Gavroche! Is it so hard to believe I don’t want you to die?”

The words come out of him on a rush, unchecked and uncensored. He can’t stand what he knows he’ll see in Enjolras’s expression, the anger and confusion and disappointment, so he closes his eyes instead, digging the heels of his hands into them. “Fuck, Enjolras.”

Things go very quiet after that, the only sound in the training room their laboured breathing. The faint sounds of the world of the sewers just beyond, of the steady drip-drip-drip of water trickling down the walls. He can’t even hear his own thoughts, a black void.

The pressure against his neck from the stick lessens, then pulls away completely as Enjolras sits up. Grantaire keeps his palms pressed against his eyes, unwilling to look, doesn’t move at all until he hears Enjolras get to his feet.

When he finally pulls his hands away Enjolras has shifted, sits on the floor a few feet from where he is. He has one knee pulled up to his chest, the other holding the wooden stick, which he balances on one end next to him. Grantaire stays lying flat on the floor, trying to get his breathing back to normal. Now he’s lying down and not fighting, the aches are starting to bloom, his muscles screaming at him as bruises start to darken.

“Some things are worth dying for,” Enjolras says, not looking at him, and it’s a bitter hurt that settles in Grantaire’s chest at the words, oh, how it’s bitter.

Grantaire rubs his knuckles against the stubble on his cheek, staring at the arched ceiling as he replies, “But not living for, evidently.”

The silence that follows is answer enough.

He rolls himself to his feet, feeling decidedly worse than when he’d first entered the room. As an after thought he picks up his stick from where it had fallen a few steps away, takes it back to hang on the wall. He picks up his half-empty wine bottle on the way out, and is half in the shadow of the tunnel when Enjolras speaks.

“I've decided to use Marius.”

Grantaire pauses, but doesn’t look back. “What for?”

“His knowledge of the government.” He hears movement behind him, the scrape-thunk as Enjolras hangs up his own stick. “I want to know about shipments. Where they're going and when and to who. If he is loyal, as you say, it shouldn't be a problem.”

Grantaire closes his eyes, takes a breath. “His word isn't enough for you?”

“We need medical supplies, we're running dangerously low after the government attacked, as you know. And as that's partly his fault, he can have some part in rectifying it. He can help us get more. Feuilly will be with him, it's not like I'm sending him out alone. It’s his chance to do something for us.”

“That is so not the problem, Apollo,” Grantaire says, shaking his head. He turns around on the spot again to look at Enjolras. “You do realise Marius is fucking useless, yeah?”

Enjolras blinks and there's a tic in his cheek, like he wants to smile but is suppressing the urge. “I hadn't noticed,” he replies, dry as white wine.

Grantaire gives him a look for that and says, “If you're sending him out, I'm going too. It's the only way he'll come back alive.”

Enjolras startles. “What?” He’s stood in the darkness between two overhead grates; Grantaire can’t see his face but he can imagine the expression, decidedly unimpressed.

“Marius is as useless as a defenceless child out there - a real one, not like Gavroche's lot - you send him out and he'll get shot or kidnapped in minutes.”

“I'm not—” suddenly, Enjolras no longer sounds enamoured of his plan. But he's also stubborn, and doesn’t like being told no. Combeferre is the only person Grantaire has ever seen get him to change his mind. As if in tune with his thoughts, Enjolras clenches his hands into fists at his side and says, “Fine, go with him. We need those supplies. If anything happens whilst you're out there, it's on you. Or Marius, for being unable to survive by himself.”

“You're a real dick sometimes, you know that, right?”

“You're the one throwing your life away for some government official.”

And they’re back to this now, are they?

“I'm not throwing anything away for anyone,” he states, feeling his anger start to build. Part of him wishes he was back in the room sparring with Enjolras, but another, more dominant part of him is just tired. Tired of the arguing and the memories and the _hurt._

“Right,” says Enjolras, “You're just putting yourself in danger for fun.”

“Who the _fuck_ said anything about fun?”

“Then what _is_ it?”

Fucking hell, Grantaire wants to throttle him. “It's about being a decent human being. Weren't you listening? Marius will be useless out there by himself. He needs someone to protect him!”

“Since when did you care about anyone but yourself?” Enjolras asks, so casually cruel, and Grantaire hisses in a sharp breath.

“That's not fair,” he replies, “You know it’s not. How dare you. You know I care, about you - about the others.”

“Do I?” asks Enjolras.

In the darkness his expression is still hidden, his voice low and questioning and quiet. Of course he would think that Grantaire didn’t care, he’d never understood that Grantaire refused to join them because he cared too much, because he didn’t want to watch them die.

Enjolras cared about things differently, he always had. His ideals and his causes came first. He cared about people, yes, but in the abstract. He couldn’t understand that they were selfish sometimes, that they could want, he didn’t understand desire and the sharp, painful need of wanting someone for your own.

“I guess not,” says Grantaire, turning his back. His last words are said to the darkness of the tunnel as he walks away, “Let me know when you’re ready to send Marius out.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

Grantaire tugs at the collar of his shirt, irritated. The fabric is too tight, it feels like it’s choking him.

He feels exposed, which is the exact opposite of what the outfit _supposed_ to do.

The fabric is pitch-black like night, the colour of shadows and the depths of the Seine. It fits his body close, like a second skin. The fingerless gloves give him extra grip, the boots are tough and steel-capped, and around his waist are a series of grips and holders for a variety of different weapons. They’re all empty apart from one; the sheath strapped to his thigh which holds the knife he had taken from Enjolras, who has not yet asked for it back.

“I feel like an idiot,” Grantaire says to Jehan, who stands at his side, fitting something close to his shoulder.

“Probably because you look like one,” Jehan returns cheerfully, and tugs on a clasp.

Grantaire scowls and tries to elbow him. He misses as Jehan pulls the final strap tight and steps back out of the way.

“But a safe idiot,” Jehan adds, as he roots around in his pocket for something else. Of course Jehan’s outfit fits him like a glove, no awkwardly tight patches or breathing difficulties to be seen. He pulls an earpiece out of his pocket and hands it over to Grantaire. “This will keep you in contact with us whilst you’re out there. They’re not perfect, but when they’re turned on, we’ll hear everything you will. Just… don’t have them on all the time. They can’t be charged to last that long.”

Grantaire looks down at the little contraption, then hooks it into his ear, fiddling with the catch. It feels odd and unwelcome at first, but once it’s clicked into place it settles snugly. He brushes his hair down over the earpiece, and rolls his shoulders back, trying to get used to the outfit.

“Stop moving,” Jehan orders. “It fits just fine.”

“It’s too small,” Grantaire whines, like the mature adult he is, and continues to scowl. The Amis’ outfits are made purposely for the individual who wears them, from a variety of different items of clothing they've found and repurposed over the years. Army gear, police uniforms, whatever they can get their hands on. They dye the fabric black and make it work.

The nearest person in size and build to him is Bossuet, but Bossuet is leaner than he is and less muscled, so the borrowed outfit fits Grantaire in length and height but stretches and pulls tight elsewhere. The trousers feel like they’re glued to him.

He’s in the process of tugging at the shirt around his neck again when the door to the room opens. Jehan bounds away to check up on Marius, leaving Grantaire in Enjolras’s direct line of sight as he walks in. Enjolras pauses mid-step when he sees him, gaze dropping to take in the outfit. Grantaire stops tugging at the material awkwardly, drops his hand to his side uselessly as he’s looked over, the scrutiny making something itch under his skin.

Enjolras’s eyes trail up his legs in the skin-tight trousers, linger for a second on the empty weapons belt, then catch on the knife on his thigh. He takes in what Grantaire’s wearing like scanning an item he’s considering buying; completely impersonal, without any emotion. His eyes move up his chest to his throat and then higher, but before their eyes can meet Courfeyrac strides through the door and throws an arm around Enjolras's shoulders.

“Everything ready?” he asks, practically hanging off Enjolras, who’s forced to turn and look at him. Courfeyrac’s practically beaming with excitement.

“Almost,” Enjolras replies, shrugging him off so he can walk over to Grantaire, who’s beginning to wish he was anywhere else.

In Enjolras's hand is a sword belt, the set of his jaw is determined. He stops a respectable distance away and holds the sword belt out. It’s long and thin, a katana of some sort. The hilt is worn and faded and familiar.

Grantaire’s stomach sinks. He remembers a soldier, dead on the floor. His own hands, fisted in his shirt.

“You need a weapon,” Enjolras says, “I found this.”

Courfeyrac tries to look painfully inconspicuous behind him, but his staring is the most obvious thing in the room. Grantaire looks down at the sword and then back up to Enjolras, and doesn’t reach for it.

Enjolras’s grip falters for a second, the sword wavers. A frown pulls his eyebrows together. “You don’t want it?”

“No, fuck,” says Grantaire, and reaches out to take it, careful not to touch Enjolras’s hand. “I just… didn’t think you would,” he says lamely, instead of what he’s really thinking, that this once belonged to a man he killed.

Enjolras lets go and the sword rests heavy in his grip. Grantaire turns it over to take a closer look, testing the weight. It’s not too different from the wooden sticks they had been sparring with in the training room. “Figured you could use some more practice,” says Enjolras, awkwardly insulting.

Grantaire blinks at him, and then twists the leather strap attached to the sheath around his wrist, lifting it to wrap over his back. “Thanks,” he replies, bland. This is the most bizarre thing that’s ever happened to him. He gets the sheath settled into place, lying diagonally across his back between his shoulder blades, and pulls the catch tight so it won’t slip.

Enjolras nods at him once then walks off abruptly to speak to Feuilly. Grantaire watches him until he feels Courfeyrac slide up beside him, practically radiating curiosity. “So,” he says, “You two talked?”

“You could say that,” Grantaire replies, looking across at him, “But there wasn’t really much talking.” More arguing and insulting and fighting - literally, as it so happened. He leaves Courfeyrac staring with his mouth open, jumping to all sorts of incorrect conclusions, and makes his way over to Marius, who has finally finished being checked over by Jehan.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Grantaire asks, trying to show the same sort of compassion Joly does as easily as breathing, and ending up just sounding petulant, like he doesn't want to be here. Which, truth be told, he doesn't. “You don’t have to put your life on the line for them, you know.”

Marius’s outfit fits him better than Grantaire’s, or maybe he’s just more comfortable in it. He looks up at Grantaire with a stubborn set to his jaw, his shoulders pulled back as he holds himself straight.

“I want to do this,” he says, stubborn, “I want to help.”

Grantaire sighs and resigns himself to going along with this stupid mission, knowing that he’s not going to be able to talk Marius over it. Feuilly takes charge then, explaining how the mission will work, what they’re going to do. Grantaire pays little attention, not interested in the supplies or bringing them back. He’s here for one reason and one reason only: to make sure Marius doesn’t get himself killed.

...And Éponine doesn’t consequently kill him.

Thinking of Éponine brings on an unexpected wave of homesickness; he presses his knuckles against his arm as he tries to keep himself from falling into it. He’s never considered the Musain as his home before coming to the sewers, but it’s the place where he’s spent all his time over the last five years, where he goes when he wants to drown all his sorrows and forget the world.

He aches suddenly to be back there, yearning for the uncomplicated atmosphere and the quiet spot at the end of the bar that was all his. He even misses the godawful alcohol, smuggled into the black market and then back out, unsavoury and bitter and mixed with who knows what.

The mission to get supplies will bring them up into the centre of the city, a place Grantaire hasn’t been in a long time. It’s a long way from the Musain but not, he realises, impossible to reach. It will also be crawling with government soldiers, trained to shoot on sight anyone acting suspicious. He stands up straighter and shifts his attention, focusing not on Feuilly’s words but the plans behind Enjolras at his side, the maps of the city from years gone by.

Grantaire finds the Musain easily enough, traces it across and then up to where they’re headed. It’ll take him a few hours on foot with Marius to get there, longer still if they’re dodging government soldiers, but there are enough buildings on the way to take cover in, if they need to. It might just be their one chance to escape the Amis.

He commits the map to his memory as best he can, taking note of streets that have been marked as having viable entrances to the sewers. They’ll want to avoid those, at least until they get back to the Musain. Enjolras won’t be happy that they’ve escaped, but he won’t be able to argue, once they’re within the walls of the Musain. Even Enjolras won’t challenge the neutrality of the place.

Having a plan makes Grantaire feel like he has a purpose again, something to do. He feels himself start to warm with the possibilities, the idea of being able to leave. To go back _home._

Feuilly rounds off his instructions with what is no doubt a rousing speech, and Grantaire takes one last look at the plans before following Marius and the others above ground.

\- - - - -

“You can pick locks?” says Marius, like it is genuinely the most fascinating thing that has happened that evening. For every medical item he puts into the backpack he’s carrying, Grantaire’s putting two in his own. Bahorel and Feuilly are on the other side of the room doing the same thing, Bahorel keeping one eye on the door.

Grantaire looks across at Marius, and somehow resists the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes.”

There’s a dead body in the middle of the floor, a government soldier. Marius had looked faintly horrified upon seeing him; now Grantaire can’t help but wonder if he’s talking just to distract himself from the sight. Bahorel had killed the soldier without hesitation, Feuilly had just stepped over his body to get to the supplies.

“I learned how to when I was a kid,” Grantaire says, information he doesn’t really want to share, but if it keeps Marius from throwing up all over the floor, he’ll do it. “I got paid a couple of times to pick car locks. It’s not so hard, when you get the hang of it.”

Marius nods and drops a tub of antibiotics into his bag. They both pretend his hands aren’t shaking. “Yeah,” he says, “Easier after the first time.”

Grantaire looks at him again, pausing in filling up his bag. Marius stares resolutely down at what he’s doing, deliberate and methodical, even as his thoughts are clearly far away. He’d made a sound like a hastily bitten-back shout when Bahorel had killed the soldier, taking a step forwards away from Grantaire’s side. Grantaire had curled a hand around his arm to stop him, felt the revulsion run through his body at seeing what the Amis were capable of up close.

“Doesn’t mean it’s right,” Grantaire replies. “You should usually trust your gut on these sort of things.”

He finishes stuffing things into his bag and zips it up, testing the weight with one hand. It’s heavier than he would like, but it will be more than useful once they get back to the Musain. It will stop him from ever having to rely on the Amis for help again.

“I want to help,” says Marius, quietly and mostly to the bag, not Grantaire. “Not destroy.”

Grantaire blinks. “I'm sorry, what?”

“I want to help,” Marius repeats, “And destroying the government won't do that.”

Which is… not what Grantaire expected at all. Not after Marius said he wanted to work with the Amis, after he got himself stabbed talking about them but continued to believe in their ideals. It’s pretty clear what the Amis want to happen to the government.

“I'm not the only one that thinks like this,” Marius continues, quiet, “Who is sympathetic towards the Amis. There are more of us, but my grandfather, he won’t listen. He just sees anyone who doesn’t agree with him as a threat, he wants them wiped out, when all this fighting isn't going to solve anything.”

“Then what are you proposing?” asks Grantaire. “That the Amis and the government work together?” He snorts at the sheer absurdity of the idea and shakes his head. “Good luck getting the government to relinquish any of their power.”

Marius finally looks up from his bag of stolen supplies to say, “Yes, that's exactly what I'm proposing.”

Grantaire stares at him.

“Please, Grantaire,” Marius says, reaching forwards to grip both of his hands, “I need to convince them. You have to help, it's the only way.”

This is insane. There’s no way that the Amis will ever agree to work with the government. Marius can argue with them until he’s blue in the face, but Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac aren’t going to change their ways. He can’t believe that this is the reason Marius left the government, the argument that sent him blindly into the outside world in search of allies.

There’s static in Grantaire’s ear suddenly. He jerks his head around for the source of the noise, then remembers he’s wearing an earpiece. He lifts his fingers up to flick the switch on and is rewarded by a loud stream of Jehan’s voice through a crappy reception: “—on the stairs on their way up, two in the stairwell and three above, one on the first floor, heavily armed, all shielded, they know you’re there, word reached back to them—”

“Fuck,” he swears, and grabs hold of Marius by the elbow, dragging him to his feet. “We’re going.”

He doesn’t stop to check and see what Feuilly and Bahorel are doing, just shoves Marius in the direction of the door and follows after him, pulling his sword from its sheath on his back as he shoulders his bag of supplies.

They get down two flights of stairs before they hear the pounding of booted feet on the floor. Grantaire swears under his breath again and grabs Marius’s backpack, pulling him sideways into a nearby room and using his elbow to push the door handle down. They stumble through into a dilapidated room with a whole lot of mould and not much else.

Grantaire heads straight for the window, curling his fingers in the bottom to try and pull it up, but stops when he sees the distance they still are from the ground floor. There are balconies on the building across the street, wrought iron twisted with age, but their own building is a sheer drop to the concrete below.

“Who puts fucking medical supplies on the fifth floor of a building?” he demands, shoving himself away from the window and turning to look for another escape route.

“It’s a holding room,” Marius says, “Where they collect stuff before taking it to the warehouses. If it’s kept here it’s inconspicuous, easily accessible by the transport people if they know where to look and—”

“It was a rhetorical question, Marius!”

Agitated, Grantaire walks into the adjoining room, what would have once upon a time been a bathroom. He’s not sure what he’s looking for, it’s not like they’ll miraculously be on a different floor, but before he gets chance to properly look around there are voices outside the door leading to the stairwell where they came in.

He swears again and grabs hold of Marius, shoving him behind him and into the bathroom. “Stay put,” he hisses, and holds his sword out as he steps back into the main room. There’s enough space for him to at least swing his sword, which is a bonus, but he can’t help but think he’d rather have his gun, even with as few bullets as he has - had.

The thought of his stolen weapons brings a sudden wave of anger, and he resolves to get out of here alive, if only so he can yell at Enjolras for his stupid fucking decisions. Who the hell takes someone’s fucking weapons from them then sends them out into a government-controlled city for supplies?

The voices outside the room go quiet, and then come back louder. Grantaire takes a breath in as quietly as he can, focusing all his attention down to the sword he holds in his hands. He may have been out of practise during his sparring with Enjolras, but the training he’d had years ago is hard to forget, muscle-memory.

There’s a sudden commotion on the floor above them - Feuilly and Bahorel must have met their own resistance - and then voice calls out, clear as a bell, “Come out now and we won’t shoot.”

Grantaire opens his mouth to say _fuck off_ , gets as far as the first ‘f’ when Marius appears suddenly behind him, eyes wide. “I know that voice,” he says, and rushes towards the door.

“What — Marius!” Grantaire darts forward, grabbing hold of Marius by the neck of his shirt to pull him back. Marius lets out a choked noise and stumbles backwards as the door is thrown open.

Grantaire shoves Marius behind him with one hand and slices forward with his sword with the other. It’s the element of surprise that saves him: the soldier clearly didn’t expect him to have a sword — which is fair enough, Grantaire didn’t expect to have one either — and does half the work for him, running straight onto the end.

Grantaire drives forwards with all his weight behind his shoulder, until the guy’s back hits the wall and the light goes out of his eyes.

“Marius!” the next person into the room says, obviously recognising him. They’re facing Marius, with a gun held out, and Marius just stares back at them, horrified. “You're alive!”

Grantaire leaves his sword impaling the dead soldier against the wall and pulls out Enjolras’s knife, turning sharply on the spot to step up behind the government soldier. He gets a hand in his hair and pulls tight, his other hand slicing the knife across his throat before he has chance to even register what’s happening. Blood gushes forth as the man falls forward to land in a heap at Marius’s feet.

Marius looks absolutely terrified, and his eyes are huge and betrayed when they meet Grantaire's.

Grantaire turns away from that look, wipes the blood off the knife on the fabric of his trousers before sheathing it again. “Stop staring at them,” he says, “Take the weapons.”

“But I knew them,” Marius says weakly.

Grantaire ungracefully pulls the sword out of the soldier's body with a wet squelching sound and cleans the blade quickly on the dead soldier’s jacket. Without the sword to hold it up the body crumples, falling forwards to lie face-down on the floor. Grantaire drops to his knees to divest him of his weapons: another knife, a gun with two bullets, some silver wire sharper than steel.

He’s working on instinct now, the need to survive. Bile rises in the back of his throat, sharp and acrid, but he has no time to think about it, or the deaths he’s just caused. He needs to get Marius out, he needs to get him safe, he can worry about the state of his soul later.

He shoves the weapons into his various pockets and holders and gets to his feet. Marius is on his floor next to the other body, his hands tremble as he pulls out a gun, looking at it like it's a poisonous snake. “Oh, never mind,” says Grantaire, and drags him up to his feet by his arm. Marius will probably be safer without weapons; less likely to injure himself and get them both killed in the process.

Marius doesn’t protest as he’s dragged over to the door, not even when Grantaire holds him still with one arm as he sticks his head out of the door into the stairwell, looking for more soldiers. There are sounds from above, thuds and a brief burst of gunfire, but nothing close enough to pose a threat. It’s impossible to tell if the sounds are coming for the soldiers or Feuilly and Bahorel, and Grantaire doesn’t want to wait around just to see.

He tightens his grip on Marius’s arm and pulls him through the door, shoving him towards the stairs descending to the next level. As Marius starts running down them Grantaire gets both hands on the bannister and jumps the stairs to the next level down, landing crouched as he surveys his surroundings. There’s still no soldiers in sight and so he jumps again, Marius’s feet pounding the stairs behind him as he rushes to catch up.

Grantaire doesn’t notice the arrow until it’s flying past his face, close enough to draw blood on one cheek as it embeds itself in the wall behind him. “What the fuck?”  he demands, whirling around on the spot. Another arrow goes flying past him, he catches a flash of blonde hair and eyes blue as the sky, then Marius catches up with him and yells: “Stop! Cosette, stop!” Which is not Grantaire’s name, what.

Grantaire falters in the confusion and so does the girl, and then Marius is saying, “It’s me, Cosette, it’s me.”

“But they kidnapped you,” the girl - Cosette - says, her voice like a summer’s day, a breath of fresh air, but Grantaire can’t take his eyes away from the arrow she still has notched in her bow, though it’s pointing in the opposite direction from Marius. “You were taken.”

“I wasn’t,” Marius says, painfully earnest as he crosses the distance towards her, hands palm up in front of him. “I went myself, I had to do something, I had to try and change things. It’s all wrong, it’s all so very, very wrong.”

Her beautiful face crinkles in confusion as she frowns, and there’s a loud shout from two floors up. Grantaire swears and takes a step towards them, hissing, “Marius, we have to go, they’re coming.” He doesn’t know why, but part of him knows that this girl won’t try and kill them — well, she won’t kill Marius. He's hoping that the courtesy also extends to himself.

“They just want to help,” Marius says, ignoring him, “They’re good people. I’m with them. We have to work together, we have to—”

“Marius!” Grantaire snaps, “We have to _go_.”

“You have to get them to listen, I’m okay, I want to be with them, it can work—” Marius pleads, even as Grantaire starts bodily pulling him down the hall. He’s like a dead weight, stumbling over his feet as he looks back at the girl whilst Grantaire kicks the front door to the building open.

“Trust me!” Marius yells, and then they break out into the street.

Grantaire doesn’t stick around to see if the girl believes Marius or not, if she’s saying anything or trying to reply, not with the image clear in his mind of the bow she’d held in her hands, or the proficiency with which she’d almost shot him. There was something wild and brave about her, as enchanting as it was no doubt deadly, and he doesn’t want to give her a chance to kill them after all.

He gets Marius across the cobbles and into a side street, dead grass poking up through the stones beneath their feet as they run. It should be a warm night, there’s no breeze and they’re in what once passed as summer, but seasons don’t work as they once had, and he’s praying that a rolling thunderstorm doesn’t start.

Maps unfurl in his mind, the plans he’d seen on the wall behind Enjolras. When they’re out of sight of the building, Marius pulls away so Grantaire no longer has to drag him. He looks like he’s just seen a ghost. He wants to ask if he’s okay, but he doesn’t think there’s enough air in his lungs to get words out. He’s really starting to notice the weight of the bag on his shoulder now and his muscles are aching from the running and the fighting. Enjolras was right, he’s completely out of shape.

They stick to the shadows of the abandoned buildings as best they can. A couple of the street lamps flicker like they want to try and do their job, brief spurts of what’s left of long-defunct electricity generators, but the only real light comes from the shadowed moon overhead. Grantaire leads Marius to an intersection between two streets, already thinking ahead to the warmth and the familiarity of the Musain. If they keep up the current pace they should reach it before sunrise.

He’s a step away from turning down the street that will take them out of the city and towards the Musain when he hears a voice, startlingly familiar.

“Grantaire! Marius!”

He turns on the spot instead to see Bahorel and Feuilly in the shadow of a building next to a road leading in the opposite direction. Feuilly is helping prop Bahorel up, Bahorel’s dreadlocks have escaped from the tie at the base of his neck and he’s breathing heavily, his body limp where it rests against Feuilly’s. He’s clutching the side of his neck, blood seeping through his fingers.

Marius doesn’t even hesitate. In seconds he’s whirled away from Grantaire’s side and across the street, concern flaring in his expression. Grantaire takes half a step after him before he realises what he’s doing. To his right is the route back to the Musain, out of the city, a return to normal life and away from the Amis.

On his hands is the blood of three government soldiers, killed to protect the Amis.

To the left is the street that will take them to the nearest entrance to the sewers, back into the world of the revolution and to people who do not quite trust him.

“Grantaire, come on!” Feuilly yells, holding a hand out towards him. Marius is trying to help prop Bahorel up on his other side. He’s dwarfed by his huge frame, staggering under the weight of the arm Bahorel drapes over his shoulder.

They’re not even his friends, Grantaire thinks. He just met them, a week ago. He has no loyalty, to the Amis or to Bahorel or Feuilly. Marius is healthy, the wound in his side completely healed. Technically, Grantaire has kept to his word: Éponine just wanted Marius to live, and he has, so Grantaire has no obligation to stay with him any longer.

The Musain is so close, the only place he's ever called home.

“Grantaire!” shouts Marius.

Something in Grantaire fractures and he takes a step forwards, and then another, and before he knows it he’s shouldering Marius out of the way so he can share Bahorel’s weight instead. Feuilly glances across at him for a second, then they're staggering down the street to the left.

There's a manhole cover not much further down the street, Bahorel and Feuilly must have been heading for it when they saw them. With some manoeuvring Feuilly and Grantaire manage to get it lifted, Feuilly goes down first and then Marius. Grantaire helps to lower Bahorel down to them, then grips hold of the edge as he descends after them, hooking one arm around the ladders to keep his balance.

When only his head and shoulders are still at street level he curls his fingers around the edge of the manhole cover, dragging it with a scrape across the cobbles and then back into place over the tunnel entrance. As the last slice of moonlight shines through the gap he pauses, one hand still outside in the fresh air, and closes his eyes. If he looks back, if he thinks of the Musain, he’s lost.

He hauls the cover the rest of the way and drops down into the darkness.

\- - - - -

He’s not even put one foot into Joly’s inner hospital room before chaos erupts.

Enjolras, Combeferre, Joly, and Bossuet are already there. They look up suddenly when they enter, Bahorel practically collapsing against Joly and Bossuet. Feuilly goes down a second later, falling onto one of the beds with a grimace, gripping his leg.

Grantaire slings his rucksack onto the supply counter and pulls the zip open so he can get the medical supplies out. He doesn’t know how to use half the stuff inside, but he’s sure someone else does. Bossuet grabs some things from him and takes them over to Joly, who has somehow got Bahorel onto one of the beds, and rolled his sleeves up to his elbows to start work.

Combeferre strides straight over to Feuilly, who hands him supplies from his own bag, talking in a low voice Grantaire can’t hear. Marius flutters around uselessly, wanting to help but just getting in the way.

A hand lands on Grantaire’s shoulder and he flinches, jerking around in surprise with one hand already raised in a fist. Enjolras blocks the blow with his forearm, using his other hand to force him back against the counters. His expression is serious; he stares not into Grantaire’s eyes but at his cheek.

“What—” Grantaire starts to say, but then he’s shoved ungracefully over to another bed. He sits down abruptly in surprise and Enjolras steps between his legs, resting a hand on the side of his face, using his thumb to tilt his head up.

It’s the first time Enjolras has voluntarily touched him since he arrived, in a move nothing at all like when they were sparring. It steals Grantaire’s breath away, the suddenness of it, he tilts his head back obligingly and looks up.

Enjolras is frowning, looking unhappy. His thumb brushes Grantaire’s jaw absently as he says, “You weren’t supposed to go.”

“What?” says Grantaire, lost.

Instead of replying, Enjolras reaches out to grab one of the antiseptic wipes from where Grantaire upended his supplies on the counter. He rips the packet open with his teeth and presses it against Grantaire’s cheek without warning. The sharp sting of it makes him hiss in a breath; he lifts his hand to shove it away and somehow ends up with his hand over Enjolras's instead.

For a second they pause, just looking at each other.

Then Enjolras pulls his hand away and his hands drop to Grantaire’s shirt, curling in the bottom of the fabric. It finally snaps Grantaire out of his stupor long enough to jerk his body back out of the way, demanding, “What the fuck?”

“Where are you hurt?” asks Enjolras, reaching for the edge of his shirt again. Grantaire curves his body away as best he can, almost completely lying back on the bed as Enjolras leans over him.

“I’m not hurt, what are you _doing_ \- stop that!” he drops the antiseptic wipe and grabs hold of Enjolras’s wrists instead, holding him in place and stopping him from leaning any further forward. “I’m not hurt.”

“Yes you are,” Enjolras says, and his gaze again moves across to his cheek. It takes Grantaire a moment to realise what he’s looking at - Cosette’s arrow must have grazed him harder than he thought when he dodged it, breaking skin. He hadn’t even noticed.

Enjolras makes a determined lunge for his shirt again and Grantaire wrestles to keep him away, saying, “I’m fine, Enjolras!” Jesus Christ, why is no one trying to help him? “Stop trying to fucking undress me!”

Enjolras freezes above him. His hands are still trapped in Grantaire’s grip, but they’re no longer reaching for his shirt. Their bodies are pressed together from thigh to chest, Grantaire almost completely on his back, a position that would look highly suggestive to anyone else. Enjolras seems to realise this at the same time he does, pulls back enough so their bodies are no longer touching, but doesn't take his hands out of Grantaire’s grip. There are strokes of colour high on his cheeks.

“Bloody hell,” says Grantaire, pushing himself up on his elbows, “I can see why you never became a doctor. Has anyone ever told you that you have a shit bedside manner?”

“Hold your antiseptic wipe,” Enjolras snaps in reply, and pulls a hand out of his grip to grab it from where it fell, shoving it at him. Grantaire considers saying no and pushing his hand away, but thinks better of it and takes the wipe. This time their hands don’t brush as he folds and presses it against the cut on his cheek. The sting is less sharp, but it’s still there.

For a few seconds they just breathe, the rest of the room moving around them. Combeferre’s finally gotten Feuilly’s leg sorted out, pulling what looks like an arrowhead from it, Marius unsubtly trying to look anywhere else. Joly holds a swathe of blood-stained towels against Bahorel’s neck, who's back conscious and swearing to destroy the government with his bare hands.

Their argument seems to have gone mostly unnoticed; everyone else’s attention is focused elsewhere.

“Takes more than a couple of government soldiers to hurt me,” Grantaire says lightly, and sees a flicker of a smile at the corner of Enjolras’s lips, quickly suppressed, before he steps back to allow Grantaire room to push himself up completely.

He straightens and swings his legs over the side of the bed as he sits up. After a pause Enjolras moves to sit next to him, arms crossed and back ramrod straight, so Grantaire sprawls out as best as he can, leaning back on one hand and slouching his shoulders. It gives him a great view of Enjolras from the side; he really does have a stunning profile, carved out of marble. It’s a shame he has about the same amount of personality.

“This is all your fault, you know,” he says conversationally.

Enjolras’s shoulders tense, and he glances across at him. “How so?”

“If you’d given me my weapons I wouldn’t have been scratched by an arrow and potentially stabbed in the chest or - you know, whatever you were looking for when you were trying to strip me.”

“That wasn’t my decision,” Enjolras says, looking away. “I argued against taking your weapons.”

Grantaire blinks. “What?” He tries to think back to their argument when he’d confronted him about no longer having his weapons, but he’d been so riled up with anger he can’t remember anything but the strong urge to yell and break something. It takes him a moment to remember Combeferre’s words — and then a second later he realises something else.

He looks down at the knife still strapped to his thigh, Enjolras’s knife. The knife he’d let him take and then never asked for back.

He takes in a breath, because there’s _no way_ he’s just reached the right conclusion, that Enjolras let him keep it as his way of subverting Combeferre. Enjolras just stares resolutely over at where the others are working, one hand curled around the edge of the bed. He probably doesn’t argue with Combeferre often.

Grantaire opens his mouth to ask him about his weapons when Combeferre looks over his shoulder at them.

“Grantaire can have his weapons back,” he says, calm as you like, clearly having listened to their every word. “Can I have some antiseptic wipes?” he asks Enjolras, painfully polite.

Amused, Grantaire watches as Enjolras pushes himself away from the bed instantly like he’s being reprimanded, snatching up some of the antiseptic wipes from the side. He gives them to Combeferre without meeting his eyes, and moves to stand on the other side of Feuilly.

With Enjolras gone, Grantaire feels like he can breathe again. He exhales slowly, relaxing muscles he hadn't even realised he was tensing, and looks over to where Joly has finally stopped Bahorel’s neck from bleeding. He’s in the final stages of applying gauze, Marius holding the tape out for him, finally useful.

Seeing Marius makes Grantaire's thoughts scatter, thrown back to the moment in the stairwell. The girl with the blonde hair and steely determination, her shock at seeing him and Marius’s ardent reassurances that he was okay, she needn't worry. The way he'd pleaded with her to trust him.

The thought makes him frown, and wonder if he should mention it.

It takes him a beat to remember that it’s none of his business, that the enemies of the Amis are not his, and it sobers him enough to get up off the bed finally. He balls the antiseptic wipe up and throws it into the bin as he heads for the door. Enjolras looks up at him as he leaves, like maybe he wants to say something to stop him, but is distracted when Combeferre asks him for some gauze, and Grantaire walks away before he can say anything.

\- - - - -

“So, your first successful mission, eh?” Bahorel asks, slinging an arm around Grantaire's shoulders. They seem to be having some sort of celebration, the medical supplies given out and everyone back on their feet. Bahorel’s grinning from ear to ear in the seat at the table next to Grantaire, doesn't seem at all phased by the bandage stuck to the side of his neck, right over his pulse.

Grantaire ducks out from under his arm and reaches for the wine bottle instead of replying.

“Yeah,” Marius says for him, seated on his other side, though he sounds far less elated than Grantaire expects him to be. He's been quiet ever since they got back two days ago, his attention tending to wander away from the conversation. He can't quite meet Grantaire's eyes.

Grantaire's pretending it doesn't bother him - because it _shouldn't_ \- and, right now, is happily attempting to get as drunk as possible. A successful mission means he and Marius have more leeway in the headquarters, are allowed to wander further and not watched every step of the way. They're still not allowed outside alone, but it's progress.

“You call injuries successful?” Grantaire can’t help but ask, and gets a good enough grip on the wine bottle to pull it across the table to him, triumphant.

“Do you always do that?” Marius asks, his voice quiet but clear across the conversation at their end of the table. Grantaire takes a swig of the wine and watches to see who reacts first. Combeferre looks up from some plans he was scrutinising, thoughtful, but it’s Feuilly who replies first.

“Take supplies?" he asks. “Of course. You must have known that.”

“Not that,” says Marius, and for a second his gaze flickers to Grantaire's, “Kill people.”

Ah.

He'd looked so shocked upon seeing the dead soldier's body on the floor, hadn't once raised his weapons to attack someone - had tried to _talk_ to Cosette, whoever she was - Grantaire should have realised so much earlier, that this was the issue. It’s one thing to kill invading government officials, another entirely to kill those you are stealing from. He curls his fingers around the neck of the bottle and ducks his head, loath to get involved. He just wants to drink in peace.

Feuilly frowns. “When it's necessary.”

“And when's that?” asks Marius, which is much bolder than Grantaire’s ever given him credit for.

Combeferre joins the conversation. He rests his elbows on the table, linking his fingers together as he says, “When they get in our way.”

“Even if they're not trying to stop you?”

“By getting in our way they _are_ trying to stop us. It's the same thing.”

The others are carrying on their conversations as normal at the other end of table, but the atmosphere at their end has shifted, sobering. Grantaire sees Enjolras look up from where he sits down near Courfeyrac, tilting his head in confusion at the absence of sound.

“Is it, though?” asks Marius, “Who shoots first?”

“Does it matter?” asks Combeferre, and Grantaire winces. It's so not the right thing to say.

He’s surprised when it’s Enjolras, of all people, who calls Combeferre on it.

“Of course it matters,” he says, raising his voice to be heard across the others. “We don't kill mindlessly, or else we'd be no better than the government itself.”

His interjection brings everyone else in as well, the other conversations dying around them. Grantaire takes another swig of his wine, wishing he were anywhere else but here, that Marius would close his mouth and _stop talking_. There's nothing Enjolras likes more than trying to convince someone of how wrong they are.

“Not everyone in the government kills mindlessly,” says Marius, and is rewarded with Enjolras staring at him like he's got two heads.

“Have you seen the executions?” he demands, "The people they publicly dispatch in the name of order and peace? The scapegoats they use when they can't get one of us? The government kills people unnecessarily all the time, just because they don't conform to their world, because they don't agree—”

“And you've never done that before in your life, of course,” says Grantaire, and then mentally hits himself when Enjolras's attention snaps to him. Fuck. Well, he's thrown himself in now, might as well go the whole way. “You kill people all the time for not agreeing with you, government soldiers for example, how is that any different? You wanted to leave Marius for dead—”

“That's different!” Enjolras's whole body tenses with his anger, his fine features forming the look Grantaire loves so much. Part of the reason he used to rile Enjolras up was for this, this singular and utter focus, the whole world disappearing around them.

Most people would stand up to face Enjolras, square their own bodies and stand tall in an unconscious effort to match his intensity, instead Grantaire slouches back further in his chair, taps his fingers along the neck of the wine bottle and says, bored and mocking, “Oh? Pray tell.”

“We don't kill innocent people, I don't sanction the murder of people for their beliefs.”

“You just so happen to kill people who have different beliefs to you.”

“When they’re trying to kill us first!”

“Oh, then let’s talk about that, shall we?” Grantaire asks, bitter. “The decisions you make, the things that you do that make you the most wanted men in the city. Fucking _supply runs_ for fuck’s sake. How you just throw the lives away of your friends and even your own, all in the pursuit of some - some _ideal._ It doesn't matter if people die so long as your revolution lives—”

“ _Grantaire_ ,” Combeferre snaps his name like breaking ice, cool and unimpressed. “Enough.”

Grantaire blinks, surprised at being called out by Combeferre of all people. In the silence falls, heavy and oppressive, he lifts the wine bottle to his lips, gripping tight to stop his hands from shaking.

Enjolras watches at him for a long time, expression unreadable, and then away, one hand clenching into a fist on the table.

“Grantaire has a point,” Marius says quietly, drawing everyone's attention back to him. “But I wouldn't say it that way. I just — all this killing. Where is it getting you?”

“It’s not a decision we make lightly,” Combeferre says, “We wouldn’t make it if there were other options.”

“It's necessary, to achieve our goals. But that does not,” Enjolras adds, with a tone of conviction and possibly a glare in Grantaire's direction, “Mean I relish doing it. We take the steps we have to, to get what we need. If there was another way, I would choose it, but there isn't. The government will kill us on sight, their soldiers have orders they must carry out. We reach out to who we can, we try other means, but peace isn’t as easy as that.”

Marius looks sad, his big doe eyes huge as he listens to Enjolras, fingers toying with a loose string at his cuff. Grantaire can tell he wants to say more, wants to press the issue further, but also knows that he won’t, that whatever prompted him to speak out earlier has now gone.

Part of him wants to interject again, to help Marius make the argument he knows he can, but it's a lost cause. The Amis have been fighting this battle for five years now, there's no going back.

\- - - - -

The success of the supply mission using Marius's inside knowledge means the Amis are finally starting to listen to him, the harder personalities thawing towards the idea he might actually be serious when he says he wants to help them. They still view him as an ex-member of the government, above all else, but they’re finally starting to listen to what he’s saying, at least.

Or well, some of them are.

“He means it, when he says you should work with the government,” says Grantaire, as he ducks a blow to the head and twists his body away, shifting his centre of gravity as he brings up his wooden practice stick.

Enjolras side-steps the attack easily. “I don’t doubt he does. Doesn’t mean we’re going to do what he says.”

“Of course not.” Grantaire would roll his eyes, if he wasn’t too focused on not getting his arse handed to him.

The training is Enjolras’s idea, offered awkwardly and bluntly, like he was regretting the words even as he said them. They’d been in a room Grantaire hadn’t seen before, Combeferre finally giving back the weapons he’d taken from him, in exchange for Grantaire returning the ones he’d borrowed for the supply mission (he had, of course, neglected to mention the ones he'd stripped from the dead soldier.He wasn’t going to give them a chance to blindside him again).

When it came to handing back the sword, he'd paused, and Enjolras had seen.

“If you’re going to keep it,” he’d said, expression unreadable, “You need to be able to use it.”

So here he is, training with Enjolras for the third straight night in a row, his muscles aching but slowly starting to get used to the burn and the extra stretch. He can feel his stamina returning to what it had once been, despite the bruises blooming, dark and stinging, on his skin.

“Doesn’t the mere existence of Marius tell you that the government might not be all that bad?” he asks, bringing his stick around in a sharp swing that has Enjolras taking a step back in surprise. “If there’s one, there could be more.”

He thinks of the blonde girl, Cosette, a thought that’s quickly pushed away when Enjolras lunges forwards at him. “Marius is hardly representative of most people,” he says pointedly, and Grantaire chokes on his laugh.

He takes a step back but Enjolras is expecting it, twists his wrist to slice his stick sideways. Acting on instinct, Grantaire frees a hand to grab the end of Enjolras's stick, pulling forwards sharply. It catches Enjolras off-guard and he falls forwards with it, into Grantaire, eyes wide. Grantaire grins as he catches him, and Enjolras’s eyes narrow.

“You can’t grab a sword by your hand in a real fight,” Enjolras snaps, and shoves him in the chest with his free hand to get away.

“People don’t take turns in real fights, either,” Grantaire points out, and gets a sharp smack to the side of his arm for his wit. “Ow, fuck.”

“A hit like that wouldn’t only leave you with a bruise in a real fight either,” Enjolras counters — and is that a fucking smile?

“Oh, real funny,” Grantaire replies, and lunges forwards.

They don’t say anything for a while, just trading and blocking blows, their feet squeaking on the wooden floor of the practice room as they move back and forth. Enjolras is in his outside gear again, but without the cowl. Instead his hair is held up by a red piece of fabric, tied into a half-hearted and messy bun that’s already falling out, curls escaping to fall around his face, softening his expression.

Grantaire doesn’t mention it; he quite likes the dishevelled look on Enjolras. It shows he’s still human.

Enjolras is a good sparring partner, stern but honest. He doesn’t give Grantaire any leeway, or chance to relax, just keeps going mercilessly. It’s one of the things Grantaire forgot about him - or at least pushed to the back of his mind - the way he drives the people around him to achieve their full potential. For Enjolras, failure isn’t an option. He wants everyone to be the best they can be, regardless of if they think they can achieve it.

Which begs the question, really, as to why he’s spending so much time training Grantaire, when he’s proven time and again that he’s not worth it, that he can’t be who Enjolras wants him to be.

_(“I know you can be better than this, that there’s more. Why won’t you let me see? What are you so afraid of?”)_

_Being tested and found wanting_ , Grantaire thinks, still giving up ground as they spar. He could never hope to live up to Enjolras’s exacting standards, his high hopes, but for a while they’d both been content to let him live in the shadow. That was the thing, about what had happened; Grantaire had always known it wouldn’t last.

Somehow, he pulls off a set of moves that ends when he gets a solid blow to Enjolras's side and an actual smile for his efforts.

And it's stupid, oh how it's stupid, but it makes something flutter in his chest.

They're completely focused on each other, watching for the little signs they know so well, even after years apart; gaps in defences and slips of concentration, anything that will allow one of them to get the upper hand. Once upon a time Grantaire had taught Enjolras how to fight like this, there was a time when they'd fought side by side.

A particular set of steps allows him to twist a hand and get his stick locked under Enjolras's, pushing him back, but Enjolras reacts quickly, curling a foot around the back of his and pulling sharply. Grantaire loses his balance, but he's faced this attack a few times now, and is able to twist his body and shift his weight onto his other leg, bringing his stick back up.

It's a feint, but Enjolras doesn't realise, lifts his stick to block the attack and misses as Grantaire throws his weight forwards behind his stick and pushes up, forcing Enjolras’s arms up above his head. Enjolras's back slams against the tunnel wall, his breath escaping his lungs suddenly, eyes wide with surprise as Grantaire pins his wrists to the wall above his head with his stick.

“Do you concede?” he asks.

“Never,” Enjolras replies, stubborn to the end, even as he grins. His eyes close once, long eyelashes brushing high cheekbones, and when he opens them again he looks wicked.

“Shit,” says Grantaire, and barely has time to brace himself before Enjolras has curved his entire body, pushing back against the wall and using the leverage to lift his legs, wrapping them around Grantaire's waist.

They go crashing to the floor, the sticks clattering on the ground beside them and sliding away, out of reach. Enjolras lands with his knees on either side of Grantaire's waist, one hand fisted in his shirt, holding him up, holding him close. Grantaire's hands have betrayed him and landed on Enjolras's waist, just above the weapons belt. The edge of his shirt has ridden up and one of his thumbs brushes warm skin.

“Do _you_?” asks Enjolras, and like this, Grantaire can feel every inch of him, the energy that thrums through his body with the adrenaline.

“Never,” he mimics Enjolras’s own reply, and tightens his grip on his waist, ready to push him away. Only the twist of Enjolras’s body above him pushes the edge of his shirt up further, revealing more skin and —

“Hate to interrupt,” says Gavroche, “But I've got a message.”

He slides into view like the insolent brat he is, slouching with one hand tucked in the pocket of his trousers which are, Grantaire realises with a sinking feeling in his chest, not all that different from Enjolras's. In fact, Gavroche is dressed almost entirely in black, save from a flash of colour on the inside of his jacket, bright and shocking.

Enjolras doesn't even have the grace to look surprised, just releases his grip on Grantaire's shirt and leans back on his thighs to sit straighter. He’s entirely composed and refined when he holds a hand out for the piece of paper Gavroche is holding.

Gavroche looks down at his hand, then back up at Enjolras and grins brilliantly, dimples and all. “I didn't say it was a _free_ message.”

Enjolras frowns and Grantaire turns his head to muffle a laugh into his shoulder. Enjolras digs his knees into his hips in retaliation, sharp, then finally gets to his feet, rising gracefully and not at all like they've just been sparring. Grantaire drags himself up as if through mud to stand a respectable distance from him.

Enjolras pulls something out from one of his many pockets and hands it over to Gavroche. Beaming, Gavroche gives him the piece of paper in exchange, his attention shifting to Grantaire. “Still here, then?” he asks, casually insolent.

Grantaire glares at him. It has no effect whatsoever. Instead of replying, he curls a hand around the back of Gavroche's neck pushes his head down so he can look behind his ear. Gavroche hisses and spits like a wildcat, struggling in his grip, but Grantaire just ignores it as he presses his thumb to the spot of skin where the tracker is.

“You're still being safe?” he asks, releasing him.

Gavroche spins away, huffing and trying in vain to look composed again. “I'm always safe. I'm not an idiot.”

Grantaire arches an eyebrow at him, and crosses his arms over his chest, because they both know Gavroche's middle name is reckless. He still hates this whole idea, this plan to use Gavroche as bait, but there's nothing he can do about it if Gavroche is so determined to take part.

“Still remember that you owe me a favour, too,” says Gavroche, “This doesn’t count.”

“The tracker isn’t a favour for me.”

He wonders if Éponine's worked it out yet; she’s tried so hard for so long to keep Gavroche out of the Amis business. She will be absolutely livid, if she knows the extent to which he’s become involved.

He's about to say something to that effect when he catches Enjolras's expression as he frowns down at the piece of paper as he reads, brow furrowed. All good humour is gone from expression; he's more serious than he’s been for several days now. Grantaire takes a cautious step towards him, “Everything okay?”

Enjolras startles and looks up, like he'd forgotten there were other people in the room. He folds the paper in half and puts it in one of his many pockets. “Just the government.”

“What is it this time?”

Enjolras looks like he's going to brush him off, same as always, but then he pauses and something passes over his expression, thoughtful.

“They're accusing us of kidnapping Marius,” he explains after a pause, and it’s clear he’s choosing his words carefully. For a second his eyes flicker to Gavroche. “They're painting a picture of us as the villains, saying we're torturing him to get back at Gillenormand. They’ve managed to find some of our supporters to back up our claims, they must have been torturing them, it’s the only way they would get these people to say such things. The government is trying to turn people against us by saying we're extremists, willing to go to any lengths, that we’ve finally crossed a line.”

“What?” asks Grantaire, at the same time Gavroche yells, “That's bullshit!”

“I have to go,” says Enjolras, practically crackling with the burning, focused energy he radiates when he's about to do something extremely reckless.

“Enjolras—” Grantaire takes another step towards him.

“Sorry,” Enjolras replies, genuine for a brief second before returning to seriousness, “You'll have to get someone else to spar with whilst I deal with this.”

Grantaire reaches out, almost curls a hand around Enjolras’s arm before he thinks better of it, remembers that they’re no longer close enough for small gestures. His hand wavers over Enjolras’s arm for a second then he pulls it away again, making a fist. “Is there anything I can do?”

Enjolras looks surprised that he would offer; Grantaire supposes he’s pretty surprised at himself also.

“No,” Enjolras replies, sounding firm. “We’ll deal with this.”

And just like that he's gone, not even bothering to say goodbye as he heads for the tunnels. Grantaire watches him go until the darkness of the tunnels swallows him, then stoops to pick up the practice sticks from where they lie.

Gavroche watches him as he puts them back on the weapons stand, hovering annoyingly at the edge of his vision until he blurts out, “I thought you two didn't like each other.”

“We don't,” Grantaire replies, and wonders why it's starting to feel like a lie.

 


	4. Chapter 4

“I want you to be on my show,” says Jehan.

“What?”

“I think you'd be a good speaker.”

“What?”

“I can't pay you, obviously, but I can be the best friend ever.”

Tired of saying what, Grantaire just stares. Jehan beams at him.

“I have no idea what you are saying,” Grantaire says finally, when the silence stretches on too long and starts to move into awkward territory. “Is this some sort of code?”

“Oh!” says Jehan, and then, “Oh! You don't know. You don't listen?” He sounds terribly sad about this fact; across the room Grantaire sees Joly hide a smile as he puts medical supplies away and doesn't help him out at all.

“No?” Grantaire asks, rather needlessly.

“He doesn't know,” Jehan says to Joly, turning his back to Grantaire.

“Oh?” says Joly, looking vaguely sympathetic. “How could he. How could you?” he says to Grantaire, who glares and pulls a face back at him over Jehan's shoulder.

“I do a radio show,” Jehan finally explains, “We hack into the government broadcasts, use their channels for our own purposes. We piggyback them for the earpieces you used on the supply run too, Marius’s tracker is helping us to uncover more. The radio show is just me, I wanted to reach out to people. There aren’t many, one or two a week - it's all we can store up energy for - but we make do, telling people about what we're up to, the truths the government try to hide. Where people can find us if they need us, how to get supplies, what to do if the government comes for them, that sort of thing. Joly gives medical advice sometimes, you know, for those without supplies.”

“Oh,” says Grantaire, “Right, that.”

He has heard of the radio shows before, Éponine always makes sure to tune the radio when it’s time for the broadcasts. The patrons of the Musain are supposedly neutral, but even their lives intersect with the Amis’ occasionally: the radio show is useful, for knowing when the black market will open next, and where, what places the government had relaxed their patrols in, the parts of the city to avoid.

Jehan and the others all use code names when speaking, of course, but everyone knows that it’s the Amis. Gavroche listens to each broadcast religiously, practically glued to the radio whenever Éponine turns it on.

Grantaire always ignored it, drank his wine or his beer or whatever excuse for alcohol the Thenardiers had gotten their hands on that week, instead. Until he heard Enjolras's voice. Then he really drank and tried to forget, but it was always impossible, that voice with its charm and its fire, wrapping around him and sinking under his skin, reminding him of times gone by. Of times when that voice had been just for him.

“The headphones, right,” he says, thinking of the ones Jehan always has wrapped around his neck, and waves his hand for him to go on.

“So will you do it?”

“No.”

Jehan deflates. Across the room, Joly finally finishes what he's doing and comes to stand with them. He gives Grantaire his best unimpressed look, like he's just kicked a puppy instead of merely telling Jehan no.

“Sorry,” Grantaire says automatically, “But I'm not - well, I'm not one of you. I wouldn't have anything worth saying.”

Both Joly and Jehan exchange a look at that. Joly turns back first, clears his throat. “Grantaire, how long have you been here now?”

“Nearly three weeks?”

“And how many times have you tried to leave?”

“A few times?” he asks, before realising that the questioning tone alone damns him. “I've tried to leave,” he protests, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. He can't actually remember the last time he tried, not since they got back from the supply mission five days ago. He and Marius haven't been back out since then; the Amis are now content to believe Marius when he gives them addresses and locations, no longer needing to put him in mortal danger to get what they want.

Surely that means now is the perfect time. There is always someone guarding the inner doors - the Amis rotate the duty - but most often it’s Bahorel or Bossuet. They’re always armed, but now, of course, he has the gun and wire from the the dead soldier, Enjolras's knife and the katana. He even has a weapons belt for them, and a black jacket to help him blend into the darkness, which Feuilly had grown out of and no longer needed, offered to him casually in passing.

So what's stopping them from leaving?

“I'm not allowed,” he says, and Joly arches an eyebrow at him.

“Since when have you ever let anyone stop you from doing anything?” he asks, and it's a perfectly polite question, but the words cut to the bone. They're true, of course, there’s no easier way to get him to do something than telling him that he can’t. Yet here he is, staying beneath the ground in the Ami headquarters, without any reason as to why.

Marius stopped being an excuse a long time ago.

“You are one of us,” Jehan says softly, “You always have been, even when you were topside. We didn't forget you.”

There's something off about his tone, some underlying sadness, and it occurs to Grantaire that they've never talked about this, not since he came back. “Are you - did you think I forgot you?” he asks, surprised, not sure if he wants to hear the answer. “I didn't forget you, any of you. I just couldn't - I couldn't be here.”

“It’s been five years,” Joly says, “You didn’t even try to stay in touch.”

“I kept up with you.”

“Only when you wanted something, or needed our help,” says Joly. Guilt twists in Grantaire’s stomach, heavy. Joly’s eyes widen when he realises the effect his words have had, and he holds a hand up quickly, saying, “I don’t blame you for that, not now. You needed space.”

It doesn’t make him feel any better; Joly’s words have hit home. It’s true that he cut all ties, talking only to Joly when it was necessary, but he hadn’t seen it that way at the time. He’d only thought about himself.

Worse than that is looking at Jehan, who he hadn’t talked to at all over the past five years, believing that a clean break would be the best for them all — and even now, with guilt in the pit of his stomach, he stands by that decision — but it doesn’t make it any better to be faced with the repercussions.

“I couldn’t stay in touch,” he says, “Because then it might have been - I might have done more. And I couldn’t be part of this, I couldn't be part of you all dying.”

“But we're all still alive,” Jehan points out softly, placing a small hand over his gently, “And we're not planning to change that anytime soon.”

\- - - - -

Grantaire had known from the moment the Amis revealed their decision to go underground that he wouldn’t go with them. He’d made his mind up long before. The others believed he only found out then, at the end, that part of his reaction was a backlash due to not knowing.

But the truth was, Enjolras had shown the sewers to Grantaire first.

The air had been bitter and cold, not helped at all by the flakes of snow drifting down around them. Grantaire had tugged his gloves on tighter, pressing his hands together for more warmth as he followed after Enjolras, dread already settling, low in his stomach.

The blond moved on ahead easily, apparently unmoved by the icy weather. He jumped from one ledge to another and then up, to where the concrete walkway started. The dead grass under Grantaire’s feet crunched as he walked and watched Enjolras practically run on ahead. Above them the sky was stained the colour of blackberries, the stars dull grey smudges. He remembers wanting to be back in the warmth of the Musain, to avoid what was going to become inevitable.

Enjolras ducked his head as he stepped into the underground world, shadows springing up to cling to his body. Even in the darkness his blond hair shined. Grantaire would have rolled his eyes if he weren’t so completely and utterly gone for him. He took the step down up onto the concrete and felt like he’d moved into another world.

He’d known about the sewers for years of course, who didn’t? They ran parallel with the street of Paris, and always had done. The entrance they used was near what was once a large over-sized building, an abandoned warehouse with shattered windows and creaking timbers. Grantaire glanced back to look at it as Enjolras curled his hand in the handle of a wooden door and pushed it open, revealing the world of the sewers.

It was even darker inside, Enjolras stooped to pick up an old flashlight from the floor; he’d clearly been there before. The beam of light shook and stuttered when he turned it on, then caught and illuminated the tunnel. Their footsteps echoed back to them as they walked. Grantaire felt the back of his neck prickle with apprehension, the growing knowledge that something was going to happen, that things would change.

They walked for a while until finally Enjolras stopped, as the tunnel opened up into something wider. He propped the flashlight in a crack in the wall, and turned to face Grantaire; in the darkness he was all angles and sharp edges, the only colour a flash of red at his arm, the band he and the others had taken to wearing. Grantaire’s arm was bare — still is.

“What do you think?” Enjolras asked, gesturing around with one arm.

Grantaire looked around vaguely and shrugged. “It’s dark.”

He knew instantly it was the wrong thing to say, Enjolras’s eyebrows drawing together in a frown, the excitement dimming in his eyes. He half-turned his body away from Grantaire as he replied, “It’s the perfect place, it runs everywhere. I’ve explored quite a bit already, Combeferre has started to dig out plans. There are dead-ends and parts which have collapsed, but we can use those as defenses.”

Something sank in Grantaire’s chest then, as he watched the flame light again in Enjolras’s eyes. Grantaire can still remember the tension rippling through his shoulders, the proud way he’d held himself as he looked around, explaining what he would do, how this place would become their headquarters, a base of operations against the government.

And all Grantaire could think was that it was too dark. Too dark and too cloying and too hidden.

A grave.

Of course, he knew better than to say that and so he just crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back against the wall next to the flashlight as Enjolras talked. It was a good while before Enjolras noticed he wasn’t replying, his words trailing off as he turned to look at him, and Grantaire could see a faint blush across his cheeks, even in darkness.

“What do you think?” he’d asked, “Do you like it?”

He sounded hesitant and unsure and like he actually cared for Grantaire’s opinion, like they hadn’t argued about this very thing for the past few weeks.

“I like that you like it,” Grantaire replied, and watched the light dim in Enjolras’s eyes.

“It’s the only way,” he said, stubborn, “You know this. What we’re doing at the moment isn’t working. We need to expand our bases, and we can’t do that at the Musain. It’s too neutral.”

Grantaire was tired of arguing about it, turned away from the earnest hope in Enjolras’s eyes, trailing his knuckles instead across the wall of the tunnel. “It’s cold,” he said, “And damp, but I don’t doubt that you’ll make it work.”

Enjolras frowned again, but Grantaire was tired, so tired, and so he reached forward for Enjolras’s hand, linking their fingers together to pull him closer. “So is that really all you brought me here for? To take a look around?”

He and Enjolras were close enough then that he could read his expressions, had spent long enough studying him from afar to understand each one. Had started to understand others, ones the others never saw, just for him. This one was stubborn, Enjolras never wanted to admit what he wanted, never asked, and whilst a part of Grantaire always went small at that, drawing in on himself and curling up, having Enjolras - at least in part - was better than not having him at all.

Or so he’d thought.

Their friends had no idea (still don’t). Grantaire doesn’t think Enjolras ever wanted them to. He’s not stupid, he always knew that it wouldn’t last, that whatever drew Enjolras to him was fleeting, a last connection to the world before he went underground. A way to get out his anger and frustration, with a willing body who wouldn’t ever refuse.

He remembers the feel of the wall as he leaned back against it, scratchy and rough and damp. He had pulled Enjolras closer with their linked hands and he came slowly, but not reluctant. When he was close enough Grantaire lifted their joined hands and put Enjolras’s on his shoulder, his own dropping to curve around his body, removing the last bit of distance between them.

He tilted his head up to Enjolras’s, with a heart that was already sinking and becoming withdrawn, their lips almost brushing as he said, “Warm me up.”

And Enjolras had.

\- - - - -

It was so easy, sometimes, to forget that what happened was more than just between him and Enjolras, that it expanded and affected others too.

“I’m sorry,” he says, feeling helpless, and Jehan squeezes his arm in response before letting go.

“It’s fine,” he says, “It was years ago, things change. You’re here now.”

Grantaire gives him a vague smile at that, and tries to feel as reassured as he knows he’s supposed to be. He still thinks of the Musain as his home, not here, but he can no longer deny that he’s staying far longer than he intended and that some things, some people, are tethering him.

“We should go topside," Joly suggests, almost as if reading his mind. “Visit the Musain for a night.” Remind us of a time in the past, when we were friends, he doesn’t say.

They've already had this conversation. Last time Grantaire was vehemently against it, this time he stops and considers. Returning to the Musain will give him the chance to see what it is that’s keeping him here in the sewers, and if it's strong enough to bring him back once he’s returned to the place he’s called home for the last five years.

“Okay," he says, sighing out a breath and with it, his resistance, "Okay."

\- - - - -

Grantaire's pretty sure part of Bahorel actually dies with excitement when they invite him. He crushes several bones in Feuilly's shoulders anyway, clamping down on them from behind and declaring, “Fuck yes, we're coming.”

Feuilly may be deafened, but he rolls his eyes and doesn’t argue. Feuilly’s leg has healed from Cosette’s arrow; he no longer winces whenever he puts weight on it. Bahorel still wears a thick bandage over the side of his neck; he’s let someone doodle a new tattoo across it, an extension of the ones on his arms.

Bossuet and Joly come as a package, Grantaire’s learned, so of course Bossuet's coming to the Musain with them too. Courfeyrac seems to know without any of them telling him, just appears, ready to go, when they’re on their way out.

They make their way through the sewers to the Musain, spending as much time below ground as they can. There’s a steady stream of conversation the whole way, jokes and teasing and bits of gossip. It feels like friends on a night out, and not at all like potential-terrorists risking their lives as they snatch a bit of time for themselves.

Grantaire wonders what Enjolras would say, if he were with them.

He disappeared the day he got the message from Gavroche, taking nothing and no one but his weapons. Combeferre had gone a day later, then Courfeyrac, the rest of the Amis all looking a mixture between purposeful and pissed off in the mean time. Courfeyrac had returned, tired and weary, but with a grim determination underneath, a day later, but Grantaire isn’t privileged enough to know what’s happening.

Combeferre and Enjolras are still gone, leaving an air of apprehension over everything, a tension just rippling beneath the surface. Even if they are currently venturing to the Musain.

It’s Marius who finally asks the question.

“Won’t Enjolras mind?”

He’s walking on Grantaire’s other side, next to Courfeyrac. He’s been frowning in thought since they left the headquarters, content to let the others talk whilst he just listens. Grantaire still isn’t sure where he stands with Marius; they haven’t had much chance to talk recently. Not alone, not without the others.

It’s Bahorel who answers Marius, turning around to walk backwards, facing them as he says, “Mind what?”

“That we’re here,” replies Marius, and it doesn’t escape Grantaire’s notice that he said ‘we’, like he’s one of them, grouping himself into an organisation which had at one point considered letting him die. “Leaving, going to the Musain. Wouldn’t he want to come too?”

Bahorel laughs, loud and amused, and ducks to dodge an overhead pipe. “Enjolras doesn’t do fun. The only time he goes above ground is for missions.”

Which is really fucking tragic, Grantaire thinks. What kind of life is he living, if he never actually lives any of it?

“He’ll be back when he’s back,” Bahorel continues, and shrugs, turning back around to face forwards. “Don’t worry about it!” he calls back over his shoulder.

“He does this sometimes,” Courfeyrac says, when conversations have resumed, in an aside that’s meant only for Grantaire. His baseball bat rests casually at an angle on his shoulder, crossing over behind his neck. “When it's important enough, and this is. He likes to be on the front line.”

Grantaire wonders when he asked Courfeyrac for this information, and pointedly doesn’t look at him, but down at his hands as he adjusts the gloves Joly let him borrow to combat the cold. He doesn’t say that he already knows this, that Enjolras went above ground for important reasons, because that would mean explaining how he knows, which would involve explaining about the training and the sword and Gavroche interrupting, and he really doesn’t want to do that.

“That’s nice,” he says instead, “But not really anything to do with me.”

“Still pretending you don't care, then,” Courfeyrac replies, on a sigh. He rolls his shoulders back to crack the muscles, and the baseball bat glints in the moonlight as they pass underneath a grate to the surface, a threat.

Grantaire shrugs, and resolutely continues to look anywhere but at him. “I don’t. What’s the point of him even going aboveground? Nothing ever changes.”

“You think revolution happens in a night?” Courfeyrac asks, amused. “This sort of rumour, the one the government is putting out, it needs to be cut off at the roots, and our usual methods of sending people out to speak well of us isn't going to cut it. There's dissent, unrest, he needs to be seen in person to get his point across.”

It doesn't make Grantaire feel any better, but it does give him a better understanding as to why Enjolras left so abruptly: he was always good at public speaking, it makes sense that his voice is the one that will convince people. Grantaire tries to imagine him, stirring up crowds in the city, stood on broken and burnt out old cars, old tower blocks crumbling in his wake, his red cowl like a beacon in the darkness.

“We're in touch with him the whole time,” Courfeyrac says, “He's safe.” He pauses. “He asked me about you—”

“Still not talking about it,” Grantaire cuts across him, and hurries up to catch up with Bahorel and Feuilly.

He lets the conversations flow around him as they walk, trying not to get caught up in the feeling of camaraderie as he resolutely thinks about anything but Enjolras. As much as Jehan and Joly say he's still one of them, he knows he's not. Bahorel, Feuilly, Bossuet, they're all new to him, and whilst they're all great people he doesn't have any history with them, any memories or things in common beyond the fact they've been living in the sewers.

With each step away from the headquarters and towards the Musain he feels something lighten in his chest, some weight lifting from his shoulders. He'd forgotten just how much he hated the dark, how cloying and oppressive it is. Somewhere along the line he'd become acclimatised to their darkness, and now it's like seeing the sun again for the first time.

\- - - - -

Éponine’s the first person Grantaire sees, when he walks through the door with the others just behind him.

For a moment they just look at each other.

Then Éponine steps forwards, towards him. Her first step is halting, but her second is more purposeful, and then she straightens and catches her stride. She crosses the room to him in barely any time at all, her eyes alight and bright and so familiar, and when she’s close enough to hug, when his own arms are starting to rise to meet her, she hits him as hard as she possibly can in the arm.

“Shit, Ép, what was that for?” he demands, scowling and pressing his hand to the ache left behind as she steps menacingly towards him again.

“That’s for fucking letting Gavroche get involved, you bastard,” she says, and punches him again. He’s expecting it this time, able to lean his body back, out of the way, taking most of the blow on his muscle and not bone — but it still hurts, Christ. “And that’s for not telling me you were alive!”

“Gavroche is fine,” Joly reassures her from somewhere behind Grantaire as he winces and dodges what expects to be another blow. Instead, Éponine whirls around to look at Joly, eyes dark.

“I know that,” she snaps, “Was it your idea?”

“It was no one’s idea,” Bossuet says gently, ever-present next to Joly, “It was a consensus - and one that _Gavroche_ was definitely part of. Don’t blame Grantaire, he tried to talk him out of it.”

Damn right he had. Grantaire rubs again at his abused arm as Éponine’s lips press into a thin line. It’s always 50/50 how she’ll take things, a knife’s edge. She’s more unhinged than people realise, sometimes, as liable to kill you as she is to trust you. Her relationship with Gavroche isn’t a typical sibling one; Grantaire’s sure they think of each other as passing acquaintances more often than not, but occasionally that blood connection will flare strong and true.

“Hm,” she says, not dismissing the argument, but putting it aside for now. She looks back to Grantaire. “And what does this sorry lot want?”

Éponine doesn’t know the Amis, not really. A few of them used the Musain as a meeting point before they went underground, but they’d been much less known then, and she had just been the girl who worked on the bar in the shadow of her parents. Courfeyrac stares at her now like an apparition, the corner of his lips already pulling into a smile. Jehan gives her a little wave, as does Joly.

Then Marius steps forward, around Bahorel, who had mostly been blocking him from view, and says softly, “Hi, Éponine.”

The change that comes over her face is immediate, the hard edges smoothing into something else. It’s a wonder Marius doesn’t notice it, Grantaire glances across at him as he steps forwards but no, still completely and utterly oblivious. The smile Marius gives back to her is completely normal, a courtesy, like seeing an old friend again on the street.

“You’re okay,” Éponine says, a little weak, and really, how can Marius not see?

Something snaps her back to herself then, and she coughs, clearing her throat and tearing her gaze away from Marius. “Right, well, good to see you both again. I’m going to the — the bar. Don’t destroy anything or try to start a rebellion.” She turns sharply on her heel and heads away, leaving Marius staring after her, bemused, then pauses a few steps away and turns back around to look suspiciously at the rest of the Amis. “This is a neutral space. _Everyone_ is welcome here. You raise arms against someone - _anyone_ \- and you will no longer have hands, are we clear?”

“Crystal,” says Joly, after a pause, the others looking a little too stunned to find words. Grantaire fights to hold back his smile.

Éponine squints at them for a few seconds longer, then goes back behind the bar. Grantaire lets the others disperse first, moving to different parts of the room. They blend in seamlessly, just becoming more well-armed patrons of the bars. Bahorel and Feuilly are welcomed into the corner where the weathered old ex-security guards sit, sharing scars and trading old stories, as Joly and Bossuet find a table in a corner with Jehan, who perches on a chair with his knees drawn up, feet resting on the edge of the seat, like a bird about to take flight. Courfeyrac heads straight for the bar.

After a pause Grantaire joins him, finds him grinning up at Éponine with one hip resting against the side of the bar. It’s a casual pose, but it has the side-effect of showing off his muscles as he reaches out to curl a hand around a cup of something Éponine’s just poured him. He’s in full-on flirt mode, the charm and the good-looks out in full force.

Grantaire glances across at Éponine, who is entirely unmoved but used to dealing with people like Courfeyrac, and then takes a place standing next to him, perfect vantage point for watching the show. Courfeyrac knocks his drink back in what is no doubt a practised move and then ruins it entirely when he nearly brings it all back up again as he starts choking on the fiery liquid.

Grantaire snorts and pats him half-heartedly on the back in sympathy. Courfeyrac glares and shrugs him off, regaining his voice enough to say, “This is petrol, this has to be petrol, there is no way this isn’t petrol.” His voice rasps at the edges. He stares down in horror at his drink, then back up at Éponine, who just looks back at him, amused. She pours a shot of her own from the bottle into a worn metal tankard, and knocks it back without flinching.

Courfeyrac continues to stare at her. “You are terrifying. Tell me all your secrets.”

He folds his arms on the edge of the bar and just beams across at her. It’s not the lazy, seductive grin of before, but something far more genuine and real. Éponine looks at him warily, but Grantaire can see already that she’s charmed, despite herself.

Hiding his own smile, he takes the opportunity to reach over the bar and grab a bottle from where he knows they’re kept. Without looking away from Courfeyrac, Éponine smacks him on the wrist and gives him the bottle she’s already holding. Grantaire pouts but takes it, sniffing what’s inside before taking a swig.

Courfeyrac’s right, it’s definitely petrol.

He shrugs and takes it over to where Joly, Bossuet and Jehan sit. They’re currently debating what would happen if you put a werewolf on the moon, and look rather horrified when Grantaire points out that werewolves are not actually real. The conversations just spiral from there - at one point Grantaire finds himself arguing with Bahorel over whether or not sleeping with a clone of yourself is twincest or masturbation - and time slips away from his grasp.

“Wow,” Éponine says to him, some time later when she’s no longer working the bar, but using him as a footrest as she curves her body against his, her bony chin digging into his shoulder. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

Her breath tickles his ear, makes him shiver a little as he tilts his head towards her. “Hm?” He’s pleasantly buzzed with the alcohol, his fingertips numb at the ends, his body warm where she presses against him.

“You,” she says, “No longer alone.”

It makes him pause, frowning. He tries to tilt his head more to see her but the angle’s impossible. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says, and then curls away from him as Jehan hiccups so loudly he wakes himself up. She reaches out to card her fingers through the escaping strands of his long, braided hair, making soothing noises, and extracts herself from where she’s curled up against Grantaire. “I think it’s time you got this one home.”

Jehan mumbles something into the table and closes his eyes again, turning his head to practically nuzzle Éponine’s hand. She arches an eyebrow at that, amused, and Grantaire downs what’s left of his drink, getting to his feet. He lifts one of Jehan’s arms carefully, wraps it around his shoulders as he lifts him up. Jehan slumps against him, happy to sleep against his chest instead.

Bahorel and Feuilly join him at the door, Bahorel carrying Feuilly on his back. Bossuet’s almost as far gone as Jehan, Joly’s half-carrying him, half-dragging him as they make for the exit, Marius valiantly trying to help. The whole atmosphere has shifted completely, a warm fuzzy feeling settling over all of them as they walk, bumping shoulders and elbows and laughing.

Everyone else is out of the door when Grantaire pauses, smile wavering for a second as he glances back. He’s still holding Jehan close to his side, a comforting weight, and he makes a soft sound of protest when Grantaire’s body turns. Éponine looks back at him from the middle of the room; she’s chewing her bottom lip thoughtfully, expression unreadable.

They look at each other for a few seconds, then she crosses the space between them quickly, expression determined. When she reaches him she pauses, then lifts her hands to place on either side of his face. She searches his face for a few seconds, brown eyes thoughtful and sure, then leans forwards to press a single, soft kiss to his forehead.

“Stay safe,” she says, and releases him.

At his side, Jehan nuzzles closer again, takes in a deep breath and sighs it out slowly. His hair brushes the side of Grantaire’s neck as he moves, and Grantaire shifts the arm around his waist to hold him upright. He doesn’t know what to say to Éponine - perhaps there aren’t even words. So instead he just nods, once, then turns to join the others outside, to take Jehan back to where he belongs.

\- - - - -

Getting drunk turns them all into teenagers, Grantaire’s left snickering maturely when he and Joly try and get Bossuet and Jehan through the door to the first layer of the sewers and end up falling all over each other. Luckily there’s no one else around - it's too late for most people to be awake - he’s not sure what the supporters of the Amis would think, if they saw how utterly trashed they all are.

It takes them longer than it should to get to the entrance to the inner layer, due in part to Grantaire only knowing one entrance, Joly getting distracted by saying to Bossuet, “No, no, no, I love you. No, seriously, I do, more than anything—” and Bahorel falling asleep whenever they stop for too long to work out which turn to take

Right as they finally reach the door Feuilly announces, “I’m gonna puke,” and Marius rushes forwards to hold him upright. Bahorel gets the door open then, pushes it wide and steps out of the way in triumph, meaning there’s nothing at all to stop Feuilly’s vomit gushing all over Combeferre’s shoes, as he appears in the doorway and glares at them all.

“Hey, ‘Ferre,” says Feuilly blurrily, as Marius holds him up and tries not to shrink under the force of that glare.

Combeferre’s glare is terrifying. “Just whose idea was this?" he asks, painfully polite as he withholds his anger.

“Well,” says Joly, “It was kind of mine and Jehan’s?”

Jehan hiccups in Grantaire’s arms, and Combeferre’s attention snaps to them, a thunderous raincloud. From Jehan he looks to Grantaire, and if anything the storm just gets worse. “I see,” he says, flat, which is his polite way of saying that he expected this of Grantaire.

Which is just — well, Grantaire is only stopped from telling him to fuck off by Jehan sagging in his arms again. He swears and shifts his grip, bending down to hook an arm under his legs, lifting him into the air. Jehan just nuzzles in close to his chest, unaware. Combeferre watches the whole exchange with a dark expression, then finally steps aside to let the others in.

Bahorel goes first, he and Marius dragging Feuilly through into the darkness. Bossuet and Joly follow a beat later, holding each other up as they walk. Grantaire follows with Jehan, and on the threshold is stopped by Combeferre, who hasn’t moved, still looking at him with that murderous expression.

“Do you know where he sleeps?” he asks, and the words are clipped.

“No,” Grantaire admits. “I was just planning on taking him to mine.”

Combeferre’s eyes narrow and then he turns. “Follow me,” he says over his shoulder.

Again, Grantaire has the urge to tell him to fuck off, but bites down and swallows it, knowing that it’s better to follow him to get Jehan to his own room. Combeferre leads him down the tunnels in heavy silence, always three steps ahead and unwilling to slow down and help him. He’s dressed in his usual outside gear, and it takes Grantaire’s alcohol-deadened senses a moment to catch up, to remember that he’s supposed to be with Enjolras, that he had been topside, only a few hours before.

The thought, of course, makes him think of Enjolras, and he wants instantly to know if he’s back, if they came back together or Combeferre alone. But the icy set of Combeferre’s shoulders holds him back, the frosty reception that tells him he’s done something wrong, even if he has no idea what, and that asking is not going to get him anywhere.

His confusion turns swiftly into anger, building with every step that they take. Combeferre has no right to be mad at him, not when it hadn’t even been his suggestion to go to the Musain. Jehan and Joly had engineered it, if anything he should be mad at them. And if he's mad that the Amis have temporarily taken leave of their senses in favour of alcohol and good conversation, well, that's something to take up with them. It doesn't matter that Grantaire's drunk: he isn't going to be doing any missions for them soon.

It reminds him of all the little instances since he came here, the times when Combeferre has been stilted or distant. It’s true that they were never that close before, but his reaction to Grantaire has seemed different somehow, colder. More distant.

They deposit Jehan in a tiny cupboard of a room, an old table on the side filled with wires and headphones and circuits. Jehan rolls over into a fetal position when put down, wraps himself up in the blanket and passes out in a second. Grantaire brushes his hair back from his eyes and when he looks up, finds Combeferre still looking at him angrily.

With a sigh he straightens and glances to the door, then back to Combeferre, who nods. They step outside and shut the door behind them, walk a little way down the tunnel to an alcove before speaking.

“Go on then, what is it?” Grantaire asks, “You've been off with me ever since I came here. Why?”

Combeferre crosses his arms over his chest, leans back against the tunnel wall. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, the one messy thing he seems to allow about his appearance. Unlike Joly, he’s perfected his doctor’s stare. He looks at Grantaire like he already knows everything about him, has assessed him and found him wanting.

“Why did you come back?” he asks.

Grantaire blinks and then frowns, it’s not the question he expected. “You know why. Marius was dying and I needed your help.”

Combeferre sighs and shifts his weight. His lips are pinched at the sides with displeasure. “I rather wish you hadn't.”

“Excuse me?”

Combeferre doesn't even look the slightest bit ashamed by his words, just continues to watch him calmly. “You're a distraction.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Do you know how long it took for Enjolras to get over you?” Combeferre asks, which is. Just. Not what Grantaire expected at all. He feels his mouth drop open in surprise. Combeferre shifts his weight, lifts a hand to push his glasses back up his nose from where they've slipped down. “I would rather not have to go through back that again.”

There's a rush of noise in Grantaire's mind, like an incoming wave, about to knock him down and wash everything away. “I think you've got the wrong idea somewhere here,” he hears himself say, as if from a distance, “Enjolras and I—”

“I don't get the wrong idea,” Combeferre replies, flat.

The tunnel seems huge suddenly, cavernous and open, filled with a hundred things Grantaire can't see or understand, questions he wants to ask and answers he's not sure he wants to know. _Do you know how long it took Enjolras to get over you?_

“If, as you say, you aren't staying with us, you should leave soon,” Combeferre says. “Before it happens again.”

“Before what—” Grantaire starts to ask, and then cuts himself off as he realises. He sees Enjolras's eyes, bright with amusement when they'd sparred, the conversations they’d had with each other, angry and bitter. How close they had started to get again, when everyone knew that it was a disaster walking.

Combeferre continues to watch him, calm and assessing. Grantaire feels like he's being judged, that Combeferre is waiting for something from him, something he can't figure out, isn’t sure he’s ever had.

_Do you know how long it took Enjolras to get over you?_

“It's not what you think,” he says, and scrubs a hand over his face. “I don't know what he told you about then but — it's not. It wouldn't ever be, don't worry. He liked his cause far more than he ever liked me.”

Combeferre's eyes widen slightly behind his glasses, Grantaire looks away from the pity he knows he'll see there. "So don't worry, I won't get in the way. I know my place.”

“Grantaire—”

He doesn't hang around to hear what Combeferre has to say, just heads back to his own room in darkness.

_Do you know how long it took Enjolras to get over you?_

\- - - - -

The next morning he makes his mind up to leave. He has no reason to stay here. As much as Joly and Jehan say he's one of them, he knows he's not. He's a ghost from their past and a useless one, he never could offer anything to the revolution.

The decision gives him purpose, settling the knot low in his stomach. It doesn't make him feel better, exactly, but it's a relief. He dresses quickly in silence, in the clothes he came here with and the few black articles they've lent him. He takes all the weapons he's amassed; they feel like they’re his even though they were all taken from various dead bodies. In this world you take what can get, and he's not about to let some old notion of honour leave him defenceless.

He stops by Jehan's room on his way out, to say goodbye and apologise for not being the man they wanted him to be. Jehan's still fast asleep and curled up, doesn't even stir when Grantaire walks in. He smiles and mentally wishes him the best, makes a note to actually listen to the radio show in future.

He's in his way back out to find Joly when he hears it.

An insistent, buzzing crackling sound. It comes and goes in waves but doesn't stop, muffled as if through several layers.

It takes Grantaire a moment to place it, to realise that it's coming from one of the desks. The wires and headphones and circuits mean nothing to him but now he's heard the sound he can't look away. He takes a step over to the table and then another, eyes searching the gadgetry for the offender. He finds it almost by accident, when he pick up a pair of headphones to. Move them out if the way and the sound gets suddenly louder.

He blinks and looks down at the headphones in his hands, then carefully pulls them down over his ears.

“—do you read me? Jehan, come on, do you read me? I’ve been taken, we need help. This is important, it's a—”

“Enjolras?” The name is out before he can think better of it, he grips the edge of the table so hard his knuckles go white.

The steady stream in the other end goes abruptly silent. Just when Grantaire's thinking the connection must have been severed Enjolras's voice replies, hesitant, “Grantaire?”

“What the _fuck.”_

“There's no time, I need you to get Jehan to—”

“Did you say taken?”

“Yes, but that's not important, I need you to—”

“Like _hell_ that's not important.” The force of the words surprises even him. Enjolras goes silent on the other end of the line. Grantaire closes his eyes for a few seconds, trying to think straight, trying to think past the fact Enjolras said he was captured. “Where are you?”

“What? No, I'm not telling you where—”

“Where. Are. You.”

There's a commotion on the other end of the line, what sounds suspiciously like a fight, cut short abruptly with a gurgle and a sound of wet blood. The floor swims under Grantaire's feet. “Enj—”

“Head for the Parc des Buttes Chaumont—” Enjolras rattles of a list of directions, using both old and new alike. Grantaire commits what he can to memory as he figures out the shortest route that he can, working out what sewer exits to use. When Enjolras is done there's a short pause, then, “Grantaire…” he tries.

Grantaire closes his eyes, counts to ten carefully and slowly in his mind. When he's done he uncurls his hand from the table, opens his eyes again and steps back. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

“Grantaire—” Enjolras tries again.

“Don't die before I get a chance to throttle you.” He pulls the headphones off ceremoniously, dumps them back on the table of wires and circuits. He leaves Jehan sleeping - he's too dead to the world to be of any help - just grabs one of the little earpieces from the side as he goes.

He finds Courfeyrac by accident, turns a corner and walks straight into his chest. Courfeyrac's hands come up to steady him, amused, but the grin disappears entirely when he sees his face. “What is it?” he asks, serious.

“Enjolras is in trouble.”

Courfeyrac nods, doesn't even ask for more information - God, is this a regular occurrence? - and says, “Let me get my bat.”

\- - - - -

Going above ground never appeals to Grantaire, not for this length of time, not in such an open space. The virus which had devastated much of the world’s population had burnt itself to nothing in the years since, but it was impossible to forget the sallow faces, the bleeding eyes, the blue lips of those who had contracted it

Almost half the world’s population gone in a matter of days. But what was worse was what happened in the subsequent wars, as people tried to salvage what they could whilst others tried to seize control, the world crumbling to ruins around them.

Paris is nothing like it once was. The streets are empty and dark and deserted. Weeds have started to poke up between the cracks in the street, wild and untamed. Grantaire crushes them under his feet as they walk. The Parc des Buttes Chaumont had been a beautiful park, once. Now it is shrouded in shadows, even in daylight. The branches of the trees reach out like claws, the lake eerily quiet and still. But the hidden secrets of the ruined park are better still than what would face them on the outside on the streets, where the government is regularly patrolling and thieves and opportunists still roam.

Grantaire is glad when they break out from the foliage, under a morning sky stained orange and grey. The cloud cover is  thick, the overhanging pollution refusing to just disappear overnight. He wonders if, in several years, it will fade — if the world will even make it that far, with resources already running thin.

It can’t go on, this constant battle. Survivors tearing each other apart.

And that is, he supposes, what Marius has been trying to say all along.

He and Courfeyrac hunker down in the shadow of an old building near Porte des Lilas, their clothes helping them disappear in the shadows cast by the rising sun. Courfeyrac keeps an eye on the entrance to the metro, one hand curled around the handle of his baseball bat.

“How much do you know about Haxo?” he asks, and it takes a moment for Grantaire’s thoughts to catch up.

“He’s at _Haxo_?” he demands, loud enough that Courfeyrac slams a hand over his mouth, shoving him back against the wall with an arm crossed over his windpipe. Grantaire swears against his palm and but doesn’t struggle, just getting his anger and frustration out in one go.

It takes a while before he’s ready to talk again, before he can nod at Courfeyrac to tell him to remove his hand. Courfeyrac does so slowly, lowering his arm to keep it against Grantaire’s chest, pinning him in place against the wall.

“I’m going to kill him,” Grantaire states, but without the vehemence of earlier, “I’m going to fucking kill him. Whose idea was it for him to go there?”

“It wasn’t,” Courfeyrac replies, “I had no idea till you told me. I thought you knew, when you gave me the directions?”

“I didn’t realise they led to fucking Haxo. And it’s not like Enjolras said, oh, by the way, I’m currently being kept by the government at their underground prison, good luck trying to rescue me.”

Courfeyrac sighs and releases him finally, moving to crouch next to Grantaire again with a view of the metro entrance. Grantaire leans forwards away from the wall, resting his arms on his knees. It always amazes him, how Courfeyrac can be so serious, when it’s not his default setting at all. Usually he’s happy and cheerful; flirting to him comes easier than breathing - then as soon as the revolution is mentioned he’s like a different person entirely.

Grantaire watches him as he surveys the entrance to the metro, saying, “So you do know about Haxo, then. Not many do.”

“I heard about it, in the Musain. Stories about what happened there. How no one ever comes back alive.”

“Well, they weren’t us,” Courfeyrac replies, and glances over at him with a flash of a grin Grantaire’s more used to seeing. “This is the only entrance into the metro we can use. That’s the problem with it being a ghost station before; never used, never even given an entrance to the street. The only way to get to it now is through one of the other lines, and the government knows that. It’s a pretty good prison, don’t you think?”

“This isn’t making me feel any better.”

Courfeyrac huffs out a laugh. “Yeah. Right, well. There are three ways into Haxo, they’re all about as bad as each other. We’ve made it in this way before, but—”

“But?”

“We lost quite a few men in the process,” Courfeyrac says, looking away. He chews his bottom lip for a few seconds thoughtfully. “But there’s only two of us this time. It should be easier for us to get in and out unimpeded.”

“Should be,” Grantaire echoes.

“We don’t have to go now,” Courfeyrac says, seeing his expression, “We could go back, get the others, regroup. We’d have more chance if—”

“No,” Grantaire cuts across him, shaking his head, “Enjolras sounded desperate. He wouldn’t have given me the address if he had any other option, if he could have waited for the others. I’m his last resort.”

Courfeyrac’s expression goes soft at that, his eyes sad. He starts to say something but Grantaire just shakes his head, saying, “No, it has to be us. So lets get this done.”

For a second he thinks Courfeyrac’s going to deny him, that he’s going to try and press him for information on their past, but then he moves to sit next to Grantaire on the floor and starts to explain the entrance to the metro, the floors they’ll have to descend through, the problems and dangers they’ll face.

\- - - - -

When they finally break through into the metro it’s with no grace whatsoever, their plans lying in tatters behind them and Grantaire’s side stinging from a fucking taser, of all things. How anyone still had the energy to power it he didn’t know - and he wasn’t likely to find out, as he’d crushed it ruthlessly beneath his heels when he’d regained control of his muscles again.

Courfeyrac fares only slightly better; there’s a trickle of blood down one arm from where he’d had a close call with a knife. The two soldiers they had met on their way down were surprises. They’d been trying to stick to the darkness, to avoid any and all confrontation, and it was mostly luck that had them surviving. Grantaire had nearly broken his ankle running down one of the long-broken escalators into the gloom, stumbling into the first soldier as a result.

They’d stripped the bodies efficiently, taken clothing and armour and weapons. They were well-stocked, down here, which only made sense when they were guarding the people the government deemed dangerous to society. The soldiers were both wearing some sort of biker helmet, repurposed to see in the dark, clunky and heavy but useful, when Courfeyrac and Grantaire put them on and jump down onto the tracks to head further into the metro.

The tunnels down here are worse than the sewers, because this is a place humans shouldn’t go, aren’t meant to be. Dread fills Grantaire with every step towards the unfinished station. He’s sure he can hear echoing voices in the darkness, ghosts of ages past, movement in the walls.

There are no guards when they reach the station itself; most likely they see no need. Where would the prisoners go? Grantaire gives Courfeyrac a boost back up from the tracks to the platform, then uses his help to pull himself up. There’s some light here, unlike in the tunnels, but not much, a couple of lanterns with still-flickering candles. Their footsteps echo back to them as they walk, dull on the concrete beneath their feet.

There are no signs of prisoners anywhere.

Courfeyrac takes his helmet off and shakes his head, running his hand through his hair to ruffle it. “They’re not kept here,” he tells Grantaire, “This is just the station itself. Further down there’s a maintenance facility for some of the old faulty trains. That’s where he’ll be.”  

Grantaire nods, and pulls off his own helmet to get some fresh air — not that it can really be called fresh. The whole place has a musty smell, unused, he can faintly hear the sound of dripping water, somewhere. “So we just have to get in there and back out? Easy enough.” When he turns to go again, Courfeyrac grabs his arm.

“Not easy,” he says, but before he can elaborate there’s a burst of static in both their ears, judging from the way Courfeyrac recoils and swears at the same time he does.

“What the _fuck_ —”

“Grantaire, can you hear me?” A tinny voice demands on the other end. “You absolute dick, I hate you, I can’t believe you left on your own to go and get Enjolras you didn’t even fucking try and wake me up—” Jehan’s voice is loud and far more pissed off than Grantaire has ever heard him, “And I know you can’t reply because the earpiece you took doesn’t do that but let me tell you, you are so fucking dead when you get back here I swear to—”

“Chill, Jehan,” says Courfeyrac, wincing but amused, “He’s with me.”

“—wrap my hands around that stupid throat of yours and — Courf?” Jehan’s ranting veers off suddenly, “What the hell are you doing there?”

“Stopping Grantaire from doing something incredibly stupid,” Courfeyrac says, impervious to the glare Grantaire shoots at him. Apparently his earpiece is a two-way contraption, the benefits of being one of the three leaders of the Amis. “It didn’t sound like there was time.”

“Where are you? You’re faint, the reception isn’t good.” There’s another screen of static that makes Grantaire’s ears ring. “Enjolras said—”

“We’re at Haxo,” says Courfeyrac.

Jehan goes quiet, his silence saying more than words ever could.

Annoyed at the break in their progress, Grantaire walks back towards the tracks, pulling his helmet down over his head again. They don’t have time for talking or debating if this is the right thing to be doing, Enjolras had been desperate on the headphones. There isn’t _time._

“Okay,” says Jehan, taking a deep breath, “Okay. Haxo. Christ. Are you su—” Grantaire ignores the rest of his words, placing his palm flat on the floor so he can drop down onto the tracks. Stones scatter as he lands, echoing in the darkness.

“Gran _taire_ ,” Courfeyrac hisses, his footsteps loud on the concrete as comes after him, “Get back here.”

“No,” says Grantaire, “I’m going. I’m not hanging around here to chat.”

Courfeyrac jumps the platform edge with less grace, skidding on the stones as he lands. His longer legs catch up to Grantaire quickly and he reaches out to grab hold of his arm. “Maybe Jehan’s right, maybe we should wait for—”

“ _No_ ,” says Grantaire, and wrenches his arm away, “There isn’t _time_.”

“Grantaire—”

“No,” says Grantaire, whirling around to look at him, and he wants to hit him but he clenches his hands into fists instead. Why doesn’t he get it? Why doesn’t Jehan? This is important, this is— “It’s Enjolras,” he says, and it’s the only explanation he has.

Courfeyrac frowns back at him, thoughtful, like he’s finally starting to understand something that’s been eluding him for a while. Then he nods, and pulls his helmet back on. His next words are slightly muffled, “Jehan, stay in touch, we’re going in.”

The trip on to the maintenance facility is quicker, the way straight and cleared of obstacles. It’s clear that not many people come down here - and those who do, frequently don’t make the journey back. The way is lit by sporadic, flickering bulbs, remnants of the time before. Grantaire is suddenly extremely glad for the visor in the helmet, which allows them to see far more than the eye can.

When the tunnel opens up again it’s into a train graveyard, a place where carcasses of old carriages are kept. It would have once housed all manner of different tools and machines but they’ve no doubt since been stripped and repurposed over the years. Anything can be a weapon if you try hard enough.

Two government soldiers stand just inside the room, turned in opposite directions to watch different areas. Courfeyrac gestures for Grantaire to follow him into the darkness created by thick shadows near the wall. “I’ll take the guards,” he says, “Keep them distracted and running in circles. You find Enjolras.”

It’s a sign of how serious the situation is that he doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t try to tease him about Enjolras. Courfeyrac bumps shoulders with him, a reassuring gesture, then slips into the darkness. Grantaire holds back for a few seconds till he hears a shout from up ahead, counts to ten and then breaks cover, gravel crunching under his feet as he runs.

It becomes suddenly apparent why the prisoners are being kept here, and not in Haxo station itself. There are three carriages in total, stripped of many parts but not all. Their doors have been jammed and locked tight with crowbars, the windows blacked out and covered up. It’s impossible to tell what the difference is between them, and he doesn’t have time to check them all.

He chooses the nearest one, wipes his hands down on his jacket then curls them around the crowbar. It’s wedged tight and stuck almost completely, but when he presses all his weight against it, it starts to budge. He leans even further into it, his muscles burning, and wonders if he’d have been able to do this, when he’d first gone to the Amis. There’s a shout and a bang from somewhere else in the facility, he grits his teeth and presses harder, his heart pounding in his chest with the fear. Fear that they’ll be caught, fear that he can’t open the door, fear that Enjolras won’t be there when he gets inside.

Then suddenly the door gives with a screech of metal and a thud, the crowbar dropping to the floor with a metallic clang. He takes one step in when there’s another shout from behind him, and he reacts without thinking, just stoops to grab hold of the crowbar and swings it as he turns, throwing his weight like he learnt with Enjolras.

The crowbar connects with the side of the soldier’s head, denting the helmet in and sending him stumbling. Grantaire follows it up with another swig, lower down and to the side this time, and hears the sickening crack as metal hits bone. The soldier goes down with a gurgle of lost breath, and Grantaire steps over him to bash the front of the helmet in. The visor shatters glass, reveals wide open eyes and a dead stare beneath.

Disgust runs through him. Grantaire drops the crowbar onto the floor and turns to enter the carriage behind him.

It’s dark inside and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust. There’s a faint glow from the emergency lights on the floor, strips of luminous green in the darkness, fading with age. It’s amazing they’ve lasted this long, but then they don’t run on electricity.

A figure stands at the end of the carriage, body tall and fists raised for a fight. The emergency lights illuminate him in pale green, make him look almost ethereal in the darkness. His bottom lip is split, blood crusts on one side. He stands as if protecting one foot, like it hurts too much to put his full weight on it. His hair is wild and escapes from his cowl, tangles around his face, burnished gold.

Grantaire’s heart literally stops upon seeing him.

He takes another step forward and Enjolras scowls, raises his hands further as if to defend himself. It takes Grantaire a moment to realise why, and then his fingers fumble when he reaches up for his helmet. He curls his hands around the edge on his third try, pulls it off and then flings it onto the nearest seat.

Enjolras stares at him like he can’t quite believe he’s real, his hands lowering as he looks at him in shock. “Grantaire?”

Then Grantaire’s moving the distance between them, all caution thrown to the wind as he falls into Enjolras’s gravity. He hits his hip off the side of one of the seats but Enjolras catches him, righting him with hands on his arms, eyes wide and searching. “You’re here,” he says, “You made it. You _came_.”

“Of course I came, I wasn’t just going to leave you here,” Grantaire replies, and his own hands have found their way to Enjolras’s face, tracing edges he hasn’t known in so long. His thumbs brush across cheekbones, fingers sinking into the strands that curve around his face. Enjolras leans into his touch, eyes closing for a brief second.

When he opens them again they’re dark, darker than they were before, the pupils huge. “I didn’t think you were ever going to come,” he says, quiet. His hands slide down Grantaire’s arms to his sides, come to rest just above his hips, hesitant.

“I was always going to,” Grantaire replies, and he knows they’re having two different conversations here, but he can’t work out where one ends and the other begins, “I couldn’t leave you.”

Enjolras smiles then, hesitant and bright. His grip tightens on Grantaire’s sides, more sure of himself, confident as he pulls him closer. “It’s about time.”

And Grantaire tilts his head up towards him, realises just how close they are. One breath and then they’d be kissing—

_Do you know how long it took Enjolras to get over you?_

He freezes, his whole body going tense, and Enjolras notices, starting to frown. His lips form the first syllable of Grantaire’s name, but Grantaire’s already pulling away, putting distance between them. “No,” he says, “No.”  He takes a step away and then two, out of Enjolras’s orbit as reality shifts and reasserts itself. “Don’t do this. Don’t pretend like you actually wanted me to come.”

He takes one step away, and then another, gaining distance. He curls his hands at his sides into fists and all he can feel against his fingertips is Enjolras, Enjolras, Enjolras.

“I always wanted you to come!” Enjolras practically yells, loud enough that it makes Grantaire turn around sharply to stare at him, “But you never would, you said no, you didn’t want to be any part of this!”

“Because you’re going to die!” Grantaire yells back, anger rushing to the surface. Frustrated, he throws an arm out to gesture at the carriage they’re in, the situation, all of it. “Doesn’t this prove it to you? You went to preach to people and got captured and now you’re here and what if I hadn’t heard your call to Jehan? What then?”

“Exactly!” Enjolras replies, “What if you hadn’t? Would you have still come charging down here? You’re such a fucking hypocrite, you’re putting your life in danger _right now_ and you’re trying to lecture me about putting my life on the line?”

“That’s different!”

“ _How_ is it different?”

“Because I came down here to save you!”

“And I risk my life to save other people, why can’t you _understand_ that?”

“Because I care about _you!_ I always have!”

“And didn’t you just show it, when you didn’t talk to me for five whole years?” The bitterness in Enjolras’s tone is surprising, makes Grantaire stop for a second, because how can he be bitter about something _he’d_ caused? “You cared about me so much you didn’t even try to follow where I went.”

Grantaire takes a breath to hold back his first reaction, exhales it slowly. “You’re the one who left,” he points out, quieter now, his anger tinged with something else, with regret, a feeling he’s bottled up and ignored for so long. “The one who went charging off after his ideals. And I know that we don’t see eye-to-eye, that I think you’re mad for taking on the government like this, but that doesn’t mean I want you to _risk your life_.”

“I can’t give my ideals up for you, Grantaire.” Enjolras sounds just as tired, just as weary, the bitterness a thin vein through his words, spidering out to the edges.

“I never asked you to,” Grantaire replies, and means it. “I knew they would always mean more.”

It had only worked between them _because_ he hadn’t wanted to take Enjolras from his cause, because he was someone Enjolras couldn’t develop feelings for. He was someone Enjolras could take comfort in, could use when he felt the need for something more than friendship, and Grantaire had never, not once, asked for more.

There’s a loud cry and then a body is kicked through the door, landing heavily on one of the chairs with an explosion of lost breath. Courfeyrac follows swiftly after, flicks the visor up on his helmet and says, “Hate to interrupt, but we need to go. _Now_.”

Relief floods through him at the interruption, anything to get away from this conversation. He doesn’t stick around to see what Enjolras’s reaction is, just grabs his discarded helmet again from the chair. He’s just about to pull it on over his head when something occurs to him, “Wait, you could hear us?”

And Courfeyrac just gives him a look. “I think the whole bloody metro could hear you two arguing. Come _on,_ let’s go. Enjolras can you walk?”

Enjolras winces when he steps on his left foot, but he grits his teeth and nods rather than admitting to it. “I’m fine. They have my weapons and the earpiece, though, they took it after I got through to Jehan to tell him that you were coming for me. Stupidly, I might add.”

The last words he directs at Grantaire, who ignores him to pick up the crowbar from where he had thrown it just outside the carriage. Instead of replying, he throws the crowbar across to Enjolras, harder than he needs to, and it’s with grim satisfaction that he sees Enjolras fumble his catch.

When he has the crowbar safely in his grip, he flips it over to hold the curved end, and his eyes move to the knife at Grantaire’s thigh. His knife.

“Probably about time you had this back,” Grantaire says, voice stiff, and unfastens the holster with slow fingers. The absence strikes him as odd but he resolutely ignores it, handing the knife and sheath over to Enjolras, who takes both without saying anything at all and straps it to his own thigh.

“A thank you wouldn’t go amiss,” Grantaire says, sarcastic, and steps back out of the carriage into the metro.

He hears Courfeyrac’s hastily-repressed bubble of laughter behind him, muffled by the distance as he takes several strides away from the carriage to assess the situation. There’s still no sign of the other soldiers, whatever Courfeyrac did to distract them seems to be working - or else they’re lying in a heap somewhere, no longer breathing.

It’s as good an opportunity as any to make their escape. He checks the rest of his weapons, pulled tight against his outfit as Courfeyrac jumps down from the carriage door. Enjolras appears after him to do the same, pauses in the doorway with one hand curled around the frame.

“Wait,” he says, and they both turn to look at him in confusion.

“I’m not the only one.”

“What?” asks Courfeyrac.

“There were others,” Enjolras says, “At the rally. It’s how the government found out. There were too many people and they rounded some up - to make a point, no doubt. They’re going to kill them, use them as examples.”

Fucking hell, thinks Grantaire, this is so not time for him to develop a conscience.

“The other carriages?” asks Courfeyrac, already on the move to the next one along. “How many?”

“Are you serious?” Grantaire demands, “You want us to break out more people?”

“About twenty,” Enjolras answers, then turns to Grantaire and says coolly, “Are you saying their lives are not worth saving?”

“No, but—” His priority had been to get Enjolras out of there, to get him back to headquarters and safe. He hadn’t thought about there being others and Enjolras wasn’t the sort to care about those caught in the crossfire. “Weren’t you the one that said deaths are sometimes necessary?”

“And weren’t you saying that all of this has to stop?” Enjolras replies, pointed. He’s already moving to the opposite carriage to Courfeyrac, unmindful of his hurt foot. “If I let these people die because they were caught listening to me then I’m no better than the government. If I’m going to live I want others to do so too.”

This is so not the time for Enjolras to actually listen to him. God, even when he’s agreeing with Grantaire he manages to irritate him.

“How else do you think I ended up here?” Enjolras asks, as he locks his own crowbar with the one at the door to the carriage, using it as a pivot to haul it out. “I couldn’t leave them.”

“You couldn’t leave them,” Grantaire echoes, and wants to scream and cry and laugh all at the same time.

“I’m in!” shouts Courfeyrac, from the door to the other carriage. He yanks the crowbar out the last few inches and the doors open disappearing inside.

“I could have escaped by myself,” Enjolras says, pressing all his weight down on the crowbar, “But that would have meant leaving these people to their fates. I’m not going to let people die when I can prevent it.”

Grantaire thinks back, then, to the two soldiers he and Courfeyrac had dispatched on their way down. Two soldiers they had knocked out cold, but not killed, taking their stuff before making the journey into Haxo. He thinks of the body Courfeyrac had kicked through the door, absent of any major wounds, possibly still alive but just out cold. Recalls how Courfeyrac had decided to distract the guards to give Grantaire the chance to get Enjolras, rather than just killing them outright.

Not too long ago he had accused Enjolras of not caring, of throwing people’s lives away without thought. He had accused him of killing government soldiers without thinking twice, of being no better than the government he was trying to overthrow. It had been an argument made in the heat of the movement, a target for his bitterness and anger.

He hadn’t once thought that Enjolras would listen to him, or that he would take steps towards proving him wrong.

Enjolras’s door opens then, and the people inside make their way out.

They’re not what Grantaire expects at all.

“Fuck—” he swears, throwing himself across the distance to get an arm around Enjolras’s, to pull him back, hard as he can, to try and get his body in front of his to protect him. The government soldiers who fall out into the facility surround them in seconds, outnumbering them four-to-one.

Grantaire pulls his sword out, one arm still held back over Enjolras’s chest to keep him out of the way. The soldier nearest to him glances down at the blade, then up at him again with eyes narrowed, but that expression soon changes when he sees Enjolras behind him.

“You,” says the soldier, and takes a step forwards.

“Back the fuck up,” Grantaire replies, and extends the arm holding the sword, towards him. It’s only then that he realises the soldiers don’t have weapons, that the people surrounding them are all in government clothing but unarmed, and his confusion makes his arm waver for a second.

“It’s him,” says one of the soldiers, stepping up next to the first. She’s shorter than him but broader, her hair is cut sharply at her chin, like she hacked it off without thought. She’s not looking at Grantaire at all but past him, to where Enjolras still stands at his side.

There’s a murmur of something through the group, they shift on their feet and look to each other. Grantaire tightens his grip on his sword and really, seriously, considers just going for it, just slicing his sword forwards into the nearest one, when Enjolras places a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t,” he says, calm, and it doesn’t escape him that after all this time Enjolras can still read his body language.

Grantaire narrows his eyes but relaxes slightly, lowering his sword but not putting it away. Enjolras pushes his other arm out of the way, stepping past him, and says to the nearest one, “Who are you?”

“We’re—” The short girl’s words die on her lips, her eyes looking past both of them as her mouth drops open.

Enjolras turns at the same time as he does, as someone else steps out of the darkness behind them, her sweet blue eyes unexpectedly severe. She has a wickedly sharp knife pressed to Courfeyrac’s throat, his body bent and curved back against hers as she holds him tight. Behind _them_ are the unarmed civilians Courfeyrac had liberated from the other carriage,  staring on in horror like they don’t know which way to turn.

“They’re mine,” says the girl, “Put the sword down.”

“Put the knife down first and maybe we’ll think of doing what you say,” replies Grantaire, his mind racing desperately to remember this girl’s name. It’s the one Marius saw, the one with the bow and arrow, the one who had let them escape.

She arches one perfect eyebrow at him and presses the knife closer to Courfeyrac’s throat. There’s a slight nod of her head and then the soldiers are on them, grabbing and forcing he and Enjolras to their knees, their arms wrenched behind their backs. They fight back but they’re outnumbered, and though he gets a good punch to the side of someone’s head there’s someone else to take their place, until he and Enjolras are forced to stand before her - Cosette, he remembers finally - their arms yanked painfully behind their backs.

“We can all get out of here alive,” says Cosette, “If you just do as I say.”

“Bullshit,” replies Enjolras, and gets a knee to the small of his back for his trouble. “You tricked us. You put soldiers on that carriage knowing we’d try and save them.”

“Yes,” she replies, “I locked unarmed soldiers on a carriage in the hope that maybe you would break them out so they could overpower you when I happened to catch your friend here with a  knife. You have worked out my master plan.”

Grantaire’s arms burn from the awkward position, but he can’t help thinking that something is still wrong, that something is off about this whole situation. “Take off my helmet,” he says, thinking ahead.

“What?” says Enjolras, and Cosette frowns.

“Do it,” says Grantaire. Cosette looks to one of the soldiers behind him and then gives another of those small nods of her head. There’s rustling behind him then, and his stolen helmet is yanked unceremoniously off his head. He takes in a deep breath and shakes his head, getting his hair out of his eyes so he can look up at her.

When their eyes meet hers widen slightly in recognition, and he smiles back grimly at her. “You remember me.”

“Marius,” she says on a breath, soft and wondering, and then her expression sharpens again and she presses the knife harder against Courfeyrac’s throat. “You got back then.”

“We did,” says Grantaire, trying desperately to ignore the way Enjolras and Courfeyrac both stare at him. “And he’s still safe. So how about you let go of Courfeyrac and we put away our weapons and maybe then we can talk?”

“What the hell, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, so quietly his lips don’t even move. Grantaire ignores him, unwilling to tear his eyes away from Cosette.

“Fine,” she says, “But you try anything and you’re dead.”

She releases Courfeyrac unceremoniously, he stumbles forwards with a sharp intake of breath. He whirls around on the spot to look at her, rubbing his throat, as the soldiers release Grantaire and Enjolras. Grantaire picks his sword up from where it fell in the commotion, puts it back in the sheath on his back. Enjolras straightens and pulls up his cowl, crosses his arms over his chest, severe and unimpressed.

The soldiers leave them to stand behind Cosette, arranged in a semi-circle with her at the centre. Despite being unarmed there’s still something threatening about them, Grantaire wants to get out of here as soon as possible. Behind them are the civilians from Enjolras’s speech — though a couple, he notices, have made their escape, taking their chances in the tunnels whilst everyone else is distracted.

“I didn’t know you would be here,” Cosette says, not to him, but to Enjolras, “I didn’t come here for you.”

The soldiers seem content to let her talk for them. It doesn’t make sense, Grantaire thinks. Why is she armed and they aren’t? Why were they locked on the carriage in a place used for keeping unwanted prisoners before execution? Why is she even down here, and what was she initially planning to do?

“You came here for them,” replies Enjolras, making the connections Grantaire can’t. “To get them out.”

Cosette nods once, her gaze flickering for a second to the soldiers behind her.

“Why were they here?” asks Enjolras.

And then Cosette says the one thing Grantaire doesn’t expect: “They rebelled.”

\- - - - -

Cosette explains it all as they make their way to the surface, how Marius’s disappearance had been the catalyst. According to her, the government supporters are split in two: there are those who believe Marius’s grandfather that he has been kidnapped but there are also others, under the surface, those who knew Marius before he went, and believe that there is something more to it.

To hear her tell it, there is a strong feeling among the second group that the government is going too far, that order and stability are needed, but not at such high a cost.

They’ve formed together into their own small group, sharing rumours at first and then hushed conversations, nothing firm at all until Cosette saw him with Marius, those brief few words that had annoyed Grantaire to no end but sparked something else in her, some determination.

“And so the government’s not happy, of course,” Cosette says, striding forwards and ahead of their group with Enjolras. “But they can’t make an announcement about rooting out dissent in their own corporation without revealing that there’s mutiny in the ranks. So they’ve been seeking us out individually, fabricating reasons, capturing us one by one to throw down here to rot.”

Several of the soldiers look like they’ve been down here a long time, malnourished and pale and sickly. They blink rapidly the lighter it gets, unused to seeing daylight. Grantaire walks amongst some of them near the middle of the group, his eyes trained on Enjolras up ahead. He’s limping slightly on one foot, trying to hide it as he keeps up with Cosette.

“And there’s more?” Enjolras asks. “More than this?”

“Many,” says Cosette. “This is just a fraction.”

Enjolras has his planning face on, looking thoughtful. Grantaire watches his back as they walk. It’s the truth of what Marius has been saying all along, the truth he’s rallied against and refused to listen to for days - but then, up until now, most of it has come via Grantaire, and he’s very aware of how highly Enjolras regards his opinions.

When they reach street level Courfeyrac goes first, taking the stalled escalator two steps at a time. He leads the civilians out into a city blanketed in blurred daylight, careful to see that they’re out of sight before he allows the next one to venture forth. It’s unlikely that the government will recognise them on the street, but it’s better to be safe than sorry, especially at this time of day.

The soldiers go next, watched over by Cosette, she has a few words with each one before they go. Without weapons and with faces the government will definitely remember, Grantaire isn’t sure where they’ll go, but Cosette seems like a capable girl.

“And you?” Enjolras asks, when it’s just the three of them and Cosette left.

“I’m going back to the government,” she says, and shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “My papa is high up in command. He’s better than Gillenormand, and he believes in what we’re trying to do - what you’re trying to do. We want to help.”

Grantaire watches the surprise that flits across Enjolras’s face, clearly not sure how to deal with this piece of information. “That’s good,” he says, “But how?”

“We’re all the way through the government,” Cosette reminds him, “There are many of us, people who are sick with the way Gillenormand’s running things. The time is coming when the dissenters are going to outnumber the supporters, his government isn’t going to last long.”

“That’s _exactly_ what I’ve been saying!” Enjolras replies, sounding vindicated. “In fact, it’s what I was saying when they caught me.”

“I know,” Cosette replies, “And we’ve been listening. We’re ready for you, when you need us. And when the time comes, we’re yours.”

“But how will we know the time?” asks Courfeyrac.

Cosette glances across at him and replies, “I’ll send a sign.”

Grantaire shivers a little - at her words or the cold he can’t tell. He crosses his arms and hugs them in close to his chest against the bitter chill, digs his fingers into his skin as he listens. He doesn’t like the sound of any of this, of toppling governments or starting revolutions. He never has. All it ever makes him think of is death.

“What are you going to do until then?” Courfeyrac asks Cosette.

“Keep building, keep recruiting,” Cosette replies, and shrugs. “Gillenormand’s lot don’t take too much notice of me. They just see me as papa’s airy, innocent little daughter. No one takes me seriously or knows what I’m up to.”

Her grin is far more wicked than it should be, for an innocent angel-looking girl like her. Grantaire’s starting to see just what it is Marius sees in her, why he looks at her the way he never looks at Éponine. “Then what?” he asks.

She blinks and looks across to him, tilts her head to one side like a bird. “Then we create the world we want to.”

“We?” asks Courfeyrac. He leans one arm against the top of the escalator, his baseball bat hangs casually from one hand. Grantaire has no doubt that one wrong word and Cosette’s pretty little face would be gone.

Cosette looks across to him, then at Enjolras, and her expression is serious when she says, “We.”


	5. Chapter 5

When they arrive back at the tunnels it’s Combeferre who greets them, his lips making a thin line when he sees Grantaire. He would roll his eyes at him in return, but then Combeferre notices Enjolras, leaning heavily against Courfeyrac with one arm around his shoulders.

“What happened?” he asks, expression shifting straight into concern.

“He hurt his foot, it’s probably sprained,” Grantaire replies, at the same time Enjolras says, “Nothing.”

The glare Enjolras sends him is impressive. It’s too bad Grantaire ignores it completely as he strides into the tunnel past Combeferre. His next words are thrown over his shoulder: “He insisted on walking on it rather than being carried the whole way here.”

“You _what?”_ he hears Combeferre demand, followed by Enjolras’s futile attempts at defending himself, muffled as the distance between them gets greater. With each step Grantaire feels the weight on his shoulders lifting, the odd tension that had settled after the confrontation in the carriage.

Then he hears footsteps behind him.

“So, I think it’s about time we talked,” Courfeyrac says, “About you and Enjolras.”

Grantaire sighs.

“Don’t you have more important things to talk about?” he asks, but it’s half-hearted. He’s known this conversation was coming ever since Courfeyrac interrupted them in the train carriage. He’s been putting it off for too long; he always knew that eventually he wouldn’t be able to deflect his questions any longer.

“You just found out the government isn’t so evil as you all thought,” he points out, hoping futilely to distract him, “Shouldn’t you three be having a world-changing meeting or something?”

“I always knew the government wasn’t,” Courfeyrac replies breezily and it’s with a jolt of surprise that Grantaire realises he’s being honest. There’s no false bravado in his words at all as he follows Grantaire further into the tunnels. “Why else do you think I let you and Marius in?”

Grantaire blinks and frowns, trying to think back to what had happened when they’d first arrived. It felt so long ago now, and he’d kind of been distracted by the fact Marius was, you know, dying. “Right,” he says, though he’s not sure he believes Courfeyrac really did know all along. “Still,” he says, “Don’t you three need to talk about it?”

“Combeferre’s going to be berating Enjolras for a while first, then Enjolras going to sulk about it and go on about his hero complex. Then he’s going to be stubborn when Combeferre asks him what happened, and they’re going to take about two hours to get around to talking about Cosette. They’re not going to get to the good bit, the planning, for a while yet and besides, who says this isn’t a priority also?”

“Me.”

“Well, tough, it is. I heard what you were arguing about in the carriage,” Courfeyrac says, “And now I know it’s more serious than good-natured jokes. So, how do you want to do this?”

It will be a relief, to get Courfeyrac to stop joking about it all the time. In his defence, he’s not known what old wounds he’s been prying open, hasn’t been aware that he’s pressing at bruises, but that hasn’t meant that each joke hasn’t gotten under Grantaire’s skin, needling at him and itching like mad.

He feels his resolve start to crack and break, and he sighs. “Get me a drink first.”

“Now _that_ I can do.”

\- - - - -

They end up at one of the outside entrances to the tunnels, a place where the concrete opens out into the world. Grantaire slouches down against the wall, one leg pulled up to his chest, Courfeyrac sitting down on the edge of the pathway with his legs dangling down, leaning back on his hands as he stares up at the sky. They’re on the edge of the city, away from the ruined remains of civilisation, the crumbling buildings with no one left to look after them. There are faint streaks of blue amongst the orange rays spread out across the sky, and everything is swathed in the perpetual haze that came with war at the end of the world.

For a while they just drink in silence, passing a bottle of alcohol Courfeyrac smuggled out from somewhere back and forth. Grantaire has no idea what it is, but it’s strong, and that’s enough, setting a fine buzz to humming under his skin.

“I get that I’ve been joking and everything,” Courfeyrac says, watching the looping progress of a butterfly through the sky. “But what happened back there, in Haxo, that didn’t sound like two friends arguing over a falling out.”

Probably, Grantaire thinks, because what had been between he and Enjolras wasn’t a friendship, though they’d both always tried to pass it off that way. Surviving the apocalypse together had made them friends, of a sort - but what happened after that, when they reached the Musain and settled down, well.

That was something else entirely.

A quick glance out of the corners of his eyes shows Courfeyrac with his head tilted back to look at the sky, expression uncharacteristically serious. The boyish charm he’s always had is still there, but it’s hardened over the years to become leaner, stronger, tougher. There’s a faint scar over one of his eyebrows, Grantaire wonders when and where he earned it. He’s struck again with the thought that so much must have happened, in the five years he was apart from them all.

“I can’t help,” Courfeyrac says gently, without turning to look at him. “Unless I know what the problem is.”

Grantaire laughs bitterly, and uncurls his body from his slouch against the tunnel wall. He sets the bottle down on the concrete edge between them as he moves to sit with his legs crossed instead, leaning over to pick at a few stems of grass that poke up from the ground below. “Not sure anyone can help with this,” he replies. “Not even you.”

“You underestimate my powers,” Courfeyrac sniffs. “In all matters of the heart, I reign supreme.”

“Even if one of the people involved doesn’t have a heart?” Grantaire asks, and it’s more far more telling than he’d like.

Courfeyrac nudges his shoulder for that particular piece of bitterness. “Enjolras has a heart. You just don’t really give him chance to show it.”

“Yeah, well,” says Grantaire, “But that doesn’t mean there’s any room in it for me.”

Courfeyrac sends him a sharp look for that, but Grantaire just curls a few of the strands of grass around his fingers and pulls, tugging them out of the ground.  “There’s not much to talk about, really.”

“Try me,” says Courfeyrac, leaning back further on the concrete, so he’s reclining back on his elbows instead. It has the side-effect of stretching his clothes tight over his muscled arms and chest, and Grantaire hates him, just a little bit, the git. It’s not fair that someone can be as attractive as he is.

Of course, Enjolras is good-looking too, but Enjolras is stunning the way art is. Enjolras’s beauty catches your attention, it makes you stop in your tracks, it’s the kind of thing people write songs about, dedicate odes to, back when they were things that people did. Courfeyrac is conventional, the boy-next-door, the kind of beauty that calls to mind warm fires and comfort and cuddling, safety.

Grantaire has never wanted safe.

Courfeyrac is also a really fucking good person. Grantaire didn’t have to experience it to know it; he could just see it in everything that Courfeyrac did. The little gestures, the conversations, the way he includes everyone. Courfeyrac is the warm beating heart of the resistance, its centre, and it is only inevitable, Grantaire thinks, that he’s the one to finally get this out of him.

“I don’t even know how it started,” he admits finally, and it’s like some part of him is cracking with age as he finally admits it, old pages locked away in a tomb. “God, it was just like — one minute we were arguing and then—” he waves his hand in the air. “I don’t know. Then we were more. We never really talked about it.”

The idea of talking about it terrified him, both then and now and in the future. He brushes strands of grass from his fingers as he says, “It was never going to last, it was always just a thing to — to pass the time, I guess. Enjolras was stressed, he was trying to bring everyone together, he wanted to start the revolution and he was being pulled in a hundred different directions at once. I was just a break from that.” He shrugs, self-deprecating. He knew his place. He’d never tried to kid himself that it was more. “He needed an escape and I was it. We both knew I was never going to come with you guys, so when you left, that was it.”

What had followed was five long years of drinking, of feeling like he’d let something important go. Of trying to forget what it had felt like to have something, something _beautiful_ , and the aching bitterness that it had never been more than a fling. That he’d never been more than an outlet, a way for Enjolras to get rid of surplus emotions, as he focused on what was really important: his cause.

They fall into silence for a little while, as Courfeyrac thinks it over and Grantaire tries to ignore the threatening memories of the past. “Hm,” says Courfeyrac finally, and tilts his head to look up at him. “And why not?”

Grantaire blinks. “What?”

“Why weren’t you going to come with us?” Then, a beat later, when Grantaire doesn’t immediately reply, “I know what you told us, what you said all those years ago, but I don’t think that was the truth, I don’t think that was the real reason. It’s not about why you didn’t come with us, is it? Why did you let _Enjolras_ go?”

He cuts far closer to the heart of the matter than anyone else ever has, Grantaire presses his lips together as he thinks through his answer. He hadn’t refused to come; he’d let Enjolras go. “He left,” he says, after a pause. “He went underground with you.”

“And _you_ didn’t follow,” Courfeyrac points out. “He gave you plenty of chances to, he told you where we were going, there was always room for you here. I remember the arguments you two had towards the end, the shouting matches. You can’t tell me you think he didn’t want you to come with.”

Grantaire closes his eyes to try and forget the memories, how towards the end all they’d been doing was arguing, the brief time when they’d been something more disappearing.

They’d been in the Musain the last time. Grantaire sitting at what would become his usual spot at the bar, one hand around his half-empty mug of wine, Enjolras’s hands flat on the surface of the bar as he’d stood looking down at him and said, “Do you believe in anything?”

And Grantaire, bitter and angry and not thinking, had lifted his mug and said, “The certainty of my full glass.”

He remembers the pinched look to Enjolras’s expression that had appeared then, the barely-controlled anger in the tension of his muscles. “Of course,” he’d said, flat and toneless, “How stupid of me to think there was anything more.”

He’d stormed away from him then and Grantaire had let him go, because how could he explain that the only thing he believed in was Enjolras, and watching him throw his life away to some cause was more painful than his desire to stay with him? He was a coward, he knew that.

And so he’d chosen solitude and alcohol rather than the chance of something more, knew that Enjolras was destined for something greater, and he’d do that better without Grantaire tying him down.

“He may have wanted me to come with you at first,” he says finally to Courfeyrac, opening his eyes again to look across at the shadowed buildings in the distance. “But it didn’t take him long to change his mind. You can’t say he didn’t do just fine without me, and it’s not — it’s not like he tried to convince me again.”

Their time spent apart clearly hadn’t bothered Enjolras; in five years he had just gone from strength to strength. From the moment he’d left the Musain he hadn’t looked back, had never once tried to get back in touch with Grantaire. From that moment on all that mattered was his cause, and whilst Grantaire had drank and watched the world burn, Enjolras had rebuilt his ideals from the ashes.

Unbidden, Combeferre’s words come back to him: _Do you know how long it took Enjolras to get over you?_

“Enjolras is a stubborn git when he wants to be,” Courfeyrac says and it makes Grantaire laugh, startling its way out of him. It brings him back to the present, to the cold wind and the warm body at his side. He reaches again for the bottle of wine.

“When he latches on to something he latches on to it for a long time,” Courfeyrac continues, watching as he lifts the bottle to his lips. “He doesn’t forgive easily or forget quickly or, it seems, love simply.”

Grantaire chokes and tries to interrupt, “Enjolras doesn’t—” is stopped when Courfeyrac holds his hand up. “And neither,” he says, “Do you.”

Grantaire frowns and takes a swig of the wine to delay his reply, grimacing at the foul taste as he swallows. What does that even _mean_? He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “So, what, you’re saying we’re as bad as each other?”

“Yeah,” says Courfeyrac, grinning. “Pretty much.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re shit at motivational speeches?”

“Fuck you, I am fabulous at motivational speeches,” Courfeyrac replies. “You’re just a cynic who wouldn’t listen to them anyway.”

He has a point. Grantaire still glares at him anyway. Courfeyrac just grins back at him, and reaches a hand out for the wine. They’ve just about finished it when a voice says from behind them, “Combeferre and Enjolras are looking for you.”

Grantaire tilts his head back to see Jehan standing in the shadows, headphones slung back around his neck. There are shadows under his eyes that weren’t there before, a mixture of his hangover and waking up to find them in Haxo both. When Courfeyrac gets to his feet, Jehan moves to him instantly, presses fingers to his arm gently for a second, then away.

“Duty calls,” Courfeyrac says back over his shoulder to Grantaire, “I’m afraid I’ll have to love you and leave you.”

“My poor broken heart,” Grantaire replies dryly, “Are you always so fickle?”

Courfeyrac grins and blows him a kiss before disappearing back into the tunnel, leaving him alone with Jehan, who hesitates for barely a second before reaching forwards to smack him across the back of the head.

“Ow, what the—”

“That’s for not waking me up,” he says, then drops down to his knees to curl his arms around Grantaire from behind, “And this is for coming back alive.” He rests his chin on his shoulder, snuggling up close, and Grantaire relaxes back into the embrace.

They stay like that until the sky starts to darken again, the light blue sky burning up into darkness as the sun sets.

\- - - - -

They all get dragged into a meeting some time later.

Grantaire spends the majority of his time leaning back in a chair at the opposite end of the room to where the real planning is going on, booted feet propped up on the chair next to him. He has one hand curled around another bottle of smuggled wine and is quite content to watch the show as he taps a beat against the glass with his thumb.

Enjolras is really on top form; in charge and demanding, rousing the others with his speeches and his calls to arms and to change. It doesn’t matter that his bottom lip is still split, or that one of his feet is heavy and thick with bandages. They’re just battle scars, wounds, signs that he’s been through fire and is still standing.

The only problem is Cosette, and Enjolras’s distrust of her. Combeferre is unsure, he sits the fence, and Courfeyrac plays devil’s advocate better than them all. Only Courfeyrac has seen something in Cosette, fell hard for her when she threatened to have their lives if they crossed her.

Marius’s confidence has grown, he argues with the inner circle themselves now, voices his opinions without worrying that they might throw him out for them. His outfit is almost entirely black, there’s a knife strapped to a belt at his waist. He looks like one of them, an Ami, and it makes Grantaire oddly wistful for the time before.

“How do we know we can trust her?” Enjolras asks, stubborn. “We don’t know who she is.”

“Marius says—” starts Courfeyrac.

“Of course we can trust her!” Marius says loudly over him, unable to stop himself, “I know her, she’s wonderful, she wouldn’t ever betray us. She knows what she’s doing, Enjolras, and she’s trustworthy, I swear my life on it.”

Enjolras looks like he’s genuinely considering throttling Marius to see if his statement’s true, Grantaire hides his smile as he leans back on his chair, pushing it on to two legs. Angry and full of wrath has always been his favourite side of Enjolras, the cutting sharpness, the fiery passion.

“She drew her weapons on us,” Enjolras points out, stubborn, “She pressed a knife to Courfeyrac’s _throat_ —”

“I was totally fine, I had it all under control,” Courfeyrac assures Combeferre, who sends a sharp glare in his direction. Apparently drinking with Grantaire meant he’d never gotten around to telling him _that_ little detail about what had gone down at Haxo.

“—And only stopped because she happened to notice Grantaire,” Enjolras continues, terse, “- which, well, we’ll talk about later.”

“We will?” Grantaire asks, surprised.

“Yes,” Enjolras bites out, not even looking at him, then continues, “She would have killed us if she hadn’t noticed Grantaire. She wanted to, and the other soldiers she was rescuing were happy enough to incapacitate us. I get that you knew her from before, Marius, and she’s your - your - _friend_ or whatever—”

Courfeyrac muffles his laughter as Marius goes red. He’s so pale and freckly that it looks ridiculous, the flush reaching up to his hair. Grantaire feels a pang of sympathy for him, and the alcohol running through his system feels daring, and the combination of the two has him saying, “Oh, come now, Enjolras. You must realise it’s more than that.”

Enjolras draws up short, cutting off from his rant. “What does that even mean?” he asks, because he has the same depth of emotional understanding as a teaspoon.

Grantaire rolls his eyes, and tips his bottle in Marius’ direction. “Come now, even you must have realised that she’s more than just a friend.”

Enjolras frowns. “What?”

Courfeyrac tries desperately to hold back another grin. At his side, Combeferre looks on in annoyance, unimpressed at the turn in the conversation.

Grantaire leans forwards, stepping up from his chair as the front legs hit the ground again. “Marius is in love,” he says, gesturing expansively around the room with his bottle, ending with it pointing straight at Enjolras. “Cosette is his beau. He yearns for her from afar, they’re like star-crossed lovers only with more politics and shady governments. She is beauty personified, of course he believes in her, she’s the one.”

Enjolras blinks.

Marius makes a sound suspiciously like a wail in the back of his throat.

“That’s ridiculous,” says Enjolras, confusion clear on his face. “Love has nothing to do with it.”

“Ah,” says Grantaire, and throws his arm around Marius’s shoulder. He pulls him close but his eyes stay on Enjolras, challenging, “But then, what do you know of love?”

A part of him knows that he’s pushing too far, that he’s being confrontational for no good reason, but he can’t help it. Even after five years, there’s still a part of him that responds to Enjolras’s serious face by attempting to get under his skin, by being as obnoxious and contrary as possible so he can get all of that attention focused on him.

It doesn’t help that everyone’s been trying to convince him that there’s something more, that Enjolras actually does feel something for him. Now he just wants to push him until he breaks, needle him until he reveals what he actually thinks about Grantaire, and then the others can finally shut up with their assertions that there’s something more.

Only Marius has to go and ruin it with his hasty declaration, “I’m not in love!”

“Sure,” says Courfeyrac, conveying all the flat sarcasm in the world, and the tension in the room suddenly shifts, lightening. Grantaire sees a few of the others smile; he’s pretty sure Bahorel barks out a laugh.

But instead his attention stays focused on Enjolras, and Enjolras keeps looking back at him.

“You’re right,” he says, and it’s soft, so soft Grantaire thinks no one else hears it. “I don’t think I understand love at all.”

Grantaire turns away.

Conversation resumes as he drops his arm from Marius’s shoulder, teasing and joking about Marius’s feelings for Cosette. Grantaire doesn’t stop to see if Enjolras joins in, just makes his way back to his table, and his smile is easier to fake when he realises that Joly and Bossuet have pulled up chairs next to him.

He sits down again in his chair as Combeferre gets the conversation back on track, asking the others what they want to do with an informant on the inside of the government.

Grantaire loses track somewhere around the time they start talking logistics, debating what it is they can actually do with a person on the inside in the government, what might be their best cause of action. Most of his attention ends up on Marius, who watches the others with a torn expression, clearly wrestling with the idea of wanting to work with Cosette and worrying what it is the Amis will have her do.

“And you?” says Combeferre some time later, “What do you think, Grantaire?”

Grantaire blinks and tears his gaze away from Marius, finds Combeferre and Enjolras looking at him expectantly. It takes him a moment to remember what they’d been talking about, then a few seconds more to remind himself that he’s not actually one of them.

He shrugs. “It’s not up to me,” he replies, “I’m not sure why you’re asking my opinion, I’m not part of your group?”

“Right,” says Combeferre. “Then why do you keep on coming back?”

“What?”

“You’ve had plenty of chance to leave us and yet each time you end up coming back here. Are you _sure_ you’re not actually one of us?”

Grantaire’s gaze flickers across to Enjolras, whose face is impassive, unreadable. He looks back to Combeferre. “I’m—”

“Stop grilling him, Combeferre,” Joly says at his side, “Grantaire’s shown plenty of times that he’s not going to betray us. He helped us get the supplies and he got Enjolras back from Haxo, I’m pretty sure he’s one of us now.”

Grantaire opens his mouth to protest, then shuts it again when he realises he doesn’t have words. Because he _has_ kept coming back, he has kept finding reasons. Since the moment he stepped through the door into the tunnel with Marius he’s been slowly becoming one of them again.

“I’m not the one who keeps saying he’s not,” Combeferre says, pointed, and Grantaire has to look away.

“Yeah, well,” he says, finding his voice finally. “About that.”

Combeferre arches an eyebrow.

“Fuck you all,” says Grantaire, and gives in.

Courfeyrac actually fucking cheers.

The others all seem far too happy at his breakdown, there are smiles and grins all around. Joly reaches over the table to squeeze his arm, pleased, and Bossuet does the same with far less grace, gripping hard enough that Grantaire actually feels his skin start to bruise.

Even Enjolras smiles - or at least, it looks like he does. Grantaire sees a flash of it out of the corner of his eye, but when he turns to look Enjolras turns away from him, all his attention back on Combeferre and Courfeyrac. There’s a greater intensity to his movements, his words, but that’s more likely down to the fact he no longer has to battle against Grantaire’s reluctance, than actually being glad that he wants to stay.

\- - - - -

The bright energy stays with Enjolras into the following days, as he strides from meeting to meeting with the others, organising, planning and arranging. Eventually he corners Grantaire in Joly’s hospital room, and asks him if he wouldn’t mind sparring, a release of the tension Grantaire can see thrumming through his body.

Like this, Enjolras holds no punches; he moves with a grace and speed that’s not easily faked. This is Enjolras with a cause, Enjolras shining, there’s nothing better Grantaire has loved than seeing him like this. He’d almost forgotten what it was like, to be caught up in the excitement and the rush.

Enjolras like this is charming, he’s charismatic, he’s a bright vicious spark that grins and cuts Grantaire to pieces with just one look, because _how in the hell did he ever manage to have him?_

They spar for longer than they ever have before, practising footwork and attacks and blocking. The sky visible in the grates overhead goes dark, time slipping by. Grantaire barely notices; it’s been so long since he’s felt like this, since he’s admitted that he’s a part of something, that he’s felt like he’s a part of something.

It’s only when Enjolras starts to slow down that the world reasserts itself, when he starts leaning his weight more on one leg, when there are faint twinges of pain visible in his expression. It takes Grantaire longer than it should to work out what it is, and when he does he just goes, “You dick.”

Enjolras stares at him, and Grantaire uses his surprise to knock his practice stick out of his hands, sending it clattering to the floor. He curls his hands in Enjolras’s shirt and drags him over to one of the tunnels into the room, to where the wooden floor stops and they can both sit on the edge of the walkway. Grantaire shoves Enjolras down first then sits down next to him, pulling Enjolras’s legs over his.

“You fucking sprained this, what, two days ago?” he demands, holding tight as Enjolras swears and tries to pull his legs away.

“So?” he asks, “I’m fine, Combeferre bandaged it.”

Grantaire presses a hand firmly against his ankle, and Enjolras hisses in a breath.

“Okay, fine, it hurts,” he says, stubborn, “But only now, we’ve been practising for hours just fine.”

“You’re a dick,” Grantaire repeats.

“Fuck off,” Enjolras replies, but doesn’t pull his legs away. Instead, he just re-adjusts himself, twisting his body to get into a comfier position next to him. Grantaire keeps one hand resting on his leg, trying desperately not to admire the way the stupidly-tight black clothes cling to his every muscle.

“So how’s the planning going?” he asks. “Is the world about to be changed forever?”

Enjolras digs his legs down into his, giving him a look. “You actually want to know?”

“Sure,” Grantaire replies. “I’m one of you now, aren’t I?”

Enjolras’s expression softens, he leans forwards this time to nudge Grantaire’s arm with his own. His hair, free of its cowl, falls over his shoulder to brush Grantaire’s chest. It’s the closest they’ve been in a long time; it makes something twist in Grantaire’s chest with longing. “Yeah,” says Enjolras, “About time.”

Grantaire turns his head to say something cutting in response, but misjudges the distance between them. The movement brings them even closer together, Enjolras still leaning forwards towards him. “Yeah,” Grantaire says senselessly, unable to think of what it was he was going to say.

Enjolras doesn’t immediately lean away, keeps his side pressed against his. He’s close enough that Grantaire can see how blue his eyes actually are, startling in their brightness and framed by thick, dark lashes. When he blinks they brush the top of his cheeks, then open again darker, his pupils bigger than before.

Grantaire pulls away first, saying, “Your plans?”

He feels Enjolras’s tension through the hand on his leg, then he breathes out slowly and relaxes, replying, “I’m still not sure I if I trust Cosette, or what she says. I know Marius turned out to want to work with us, but how much do we even know about her? How much do _you_ know? You still haven’t explained how she knows you.”

“Ah,” says Grantaire, and has the grace to look embarrassed. “She nearly killed Marius and I.”

“What.” Enjolras sounds - and looks - murderous.

“No - it’s okay, don’t worry. It was when you sent us out, to get supplies, that first time. She was one of the people there, sent in to stop us. Marius and I ran into her and you know Marius, he started babbling and professing his love and she… didn’t kill us.”

“I see.”

“I think that was when she realised that maybe we hadn’t actually kidnapped Marius and he’d come to be with us of his own volition,” he continues. “Or at least, I’m pretty sure that’s what Marius was yelling at her as I dragged him out of the building, trying to save his life.”

“Why do you do that?” Enjolras demands.

“Do what?”

“Keep putting your life in danger for other people?”

“Oh, and you’re one to talk—”

“Don’t brush me off, Grantaire.” Enjolras sounds serious, more so than Grantaire has heard him in a long time. It’s not that he’s mad, exactly, but he’s clearly not happy. “That wasn’t the first time, and it’s not the last, either. Just the other day you were charging into Haxo to—”

“This?” Grantaire demands, “ _Again_?”

“ _Stop it_!” Enjolras growls, grabbing the front of his shirt and holding tight, forcing him to look at him. “Stop deflecting. For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve been throwing yourself into the line of fire for other people. Me, when we first met; Courfeyrac, when we found him; Jehan, that time in the Musain. Marius, when you brought him to us without even really knowing who he was. Marius again, when you went with him to go and get supplies. Me, in Haxo, when you could have easily been captured and thrown away too and - and I bet there’s a hundred other times, too! All that time when you were at the Musain, with Éponine and Marius and whoever else.”

Grantaire stares back at him, unable to form the words - or even thoughts - to reply. His instinct is to deny, to argue against it, but it’s all true, it all happened. He did do all those things, only he hadn’t thought about what he was doing at the same. He hadn’t considered himself because he’d been too busy trying to save the others.

“And this,” Enjolras says, releasing his shirt finally to reach up, his fingertips pressing against the scar running across Grantaire’s throat. “I don’t even know what this is from.”

The touch makes him close his eyes, tensing his hands so he doesn’t do something stupid like reach out to Enjolras in return. Enjolras’s fingertips trail over the scar, hesitant, twisting up from his throat to just under his ear.

He has to take a breath, keeps his eyes closed as the fingertips are replaced with a hand curling around the side of his neck, Enjolras’s thumb tilting his head up. He must be able to feel Grantaire's pulse beating under his skin, he _must_. "Grantaire," he says, soft.

Grantaire opens his eyes.

“I don’t want you to come with us,” Enjolras says, “I don’t want you involved in the plan, in what we’re going to do with the government. Because if you do - no, don’t interrupt - if you do, you’re going to do something incredibly stupid. You’re going to try and save someone, you’re going to put your life in danger and bloody hell, Grantaire, I don’t want you to die. Why else do you think I let you stay at the Musain?”

It’s such a rush of information that Grantaire can’t process it all at once, ends up latching on to the one thing that stands out the most. “I’m sorry - _let_ me stay?”

Enjolras swears. “That’s not what I—”

“Well, it’s definitely what it sounded—”

“Shut _up_ , Grantaire, for just a second, stop being so confrontational and—”

“Do what I’m told?” Grantaire interrupts, and pushes Enjolras’s legs off his, standing up abruptly. The calm they had is gone completely, all that’s left is a burning, irrational anger. “I didn’t stay at the Musain because you let me, fucking hell, I stayed there of my own free will. It was _my_ decision not to come with you, not yours, and what I choose to do with my life is up to me, including if I want to put my life on the line!”

He practically shouts the last few words at Enjolras, who gets to his feet to glare back at him. His whole body is tense, his hands curl into fists at his sides. Grantaire almost wishes he would hit him, it would be a release of the tension, give him an outlet for his anger.

“If you want me to leave, all you have to do is ask,” he continues, quieter, “Not try and make out that it’s for my own safety.”

“That’s not what I — Grantaire, will you just _listen to me_ —”

“I’ve done enough listening,” Grantaire replies, “And I’ve heard everything that you’ve got to say.”

He turns to storm off down one of the tunnels, freezes in place when he realises they’re not alone. There’s a figure standing by the entrance to one of the tunnels, tall and skinny and dishevelled. There’s a bruise blooming on one of his cheeks, a trickle of blood coming from behind one ear to his neck. He looks like he’s been in a fight and been on the losing side, and Grantaire’s anger flees upon seeing him.

“Gavroche?”

Enjolras whirls around on the spot, eyes wide. Gavroche doesn’t even look at him, just takes a step towards Grantaire, then another.

“Gavroche, what’s wrong?” asks Grantaire.

“I need you,” Gavroche says, and his voice cracks, “Please.”

Grantaire’s heart lodges itself in his throat, his voice momentarily sticking.

“ _Please._ It’s a — the favour,” Gavroche says, “You always said—”

“Yes, of course, yes, did you think I would say no?” Grantaire asks, finding his voice again and taking several steps forward to close the distance between them. He wants to reach out and grab Gavroche but he looks skittish, his hands twitching at his sides. Grantaire has known Gavroche for long enough that he knows asking for help does not come easily for him, that messing up lead to beatings and mistreatment from his parents.

He has to tread carefully, coax it out of him, or Gavroche is going to startle like a cat and be gone, before they even find out what it is.

“I didn’t mean to,” Gavroche says. “I didn’t think.”

“That’s okay,” Grantaire replies, “Sometimes we don’t. But that doesn’t mean it can’t be fixed, Gavroche.”

Gavroche’s gaze is far away, but upon hearing his name, he focuses in on Grantaire.

“It’s one of the kids, one of the younger ones,” he explains, hesitant at first and then quicker, his words start to run together, “He can’t breathe. It’s been like this for a while. Joly’s running low and didn’t have what we needed, so some of us went to the - to the government. They’ve got those places where they give out supplies—” for a second his eyes flick to Enjolras, as if expecting him to yell at him for being a traitor, but Enjolras doesn’t say anything, and in that moment Grantaire is eternally grateful.

“But they wouldn’t give him anything,” Gavroche continues, “‘cause they knew he was one of the orphans, they knew he wasn’t from the city, so they don’t care if he dies. The kid can’t fucking breathe, he’s not even able to sleep, but they said no and they tried to catch us, round them us and I don’t know, kill us or something or—”

“Gavroche,” Grantaire says, calming, and finally puts a hand out to rest, gently on his arm. It draws Gavroche back into the room, he glances down at his hand and then back up, saying. His movements are jerky, he keeps fidgeting with his hands, a bundle of energy that Grantaire’s unused to when it comes to him. “Take a breath.”

Gavroche twitches and goes to pull away, then takes a long, deep breath and releases. “They caught me,” he admits. “They found the tracker, cut it out, they were like ‘it’s him’, they know I’ve been pretending to be Marius. They tried to - they - they _shot_ some of them, because they were expendable,” he spits the word out, vicious as a wildcat, “But they thought I’d give them information. They threw me in a van. I thought that was it.”

Grantaire can picture it clearly, Gavroche spitting and snarling like a wildcat, trying desperately to escape even as he’s outnumbered. His own hands curl into fists at his sides, wanting to lash out and hurt the imaginary soldiers.

“Then, like, the van didn’t even go anywhere,” Gavroche says, “And there was arguing, and the door opens again and there’s this blonde girl, with a bow and arrow, can you believe it? And she’s from the government but she’s telling me to go, that it’s time, and I just — I fucking ran, Grantaire. I didn’t even look for the others. I just left them.”

Fucking hell. Grantaire lifts his other hand now, rests both of them on Gavroche’s shoulders. “You had no choice, Gavroche. They would have done worse to you if they’d kept you. You can’t blame yourself for the others, for what happened—”

“But they were with me, they came because of me. It’s my job to keep them safe!” Gavroche replies, and his voice finally gives up, cracking in two. Grantaire feels his heart break with him. “And now - and now they have the tracker - and they’re going to be able to use it - they’re going to find the stuff Jehan did to it, the modifications, and then they’ll find us, they’ll come here and—”

“Gavroche.” Enjolras’s voice is warm and soft and gentle. Grantaire looks up in surprise to find Enjolras next to him, expression the furthest from severe it’s ever been. He looks like he’d reach out for Gavroche himself, if Grantaire wasn’t already doing so. “It’s not your fault, none of this is.”

Gavroche looks over at him, frowning and unsure, and Enjolras continues, “Bad things happen. It’s not your fault. What matters is what we do to fix it.”

He puts a subtle emphasis on the word we, letting Gavroche know that he’s not alone. Grantaire watches Gavroche’s face, searches it for any signs that he’s going to bolt, but the shoulders under his hands are relaxed. Gavroche keeps his eyes on Enjolras and then nods, once.

\- - - - -

Grantaire is surprised, when Enjolras doesn’t immediately call a meeting of the Amis. Instead he heads straight for Combeferre’s room, and the four of them then make their way into the second layer of the tunnels. Gavroche leads the way, still twitchy and likely to run at any minute, but Grantaire’s presence at his side seems to calm him, and he makes sure to never stray too far.

They find the kid sat down against a tunnel wall, two others leaning worriedly over him. They scarper when they see them coming, disappearing instantly into the shadows. Gavroche watches them go, his eyes sad, then crouches down to talk to the boy. Combeferre crouches down with him, brings up a smile Grantaire has never seen before. It makes him look kind and caring, the complete opposite of the stern, unimpressed look Grantaire always gets.

“It’s asthma,” Combeferre says, a few terse minutes later, when he’s finished looking the boy over. He still has one hand pressed against the child’s back. The boy can’t be much older than eight, his breathing is erratic and stuttered. There’s a faint blue tinge to his lips, nothing serious yet, but looking worrying.

“Living down here as much as you do, in the darkness, it’s bound to happen,” Combeferre continues, “Especially when there’s not even really much sun as we know it above ground. You were right that Joly wouldn’t have anything.” He says his last words to Gavroche, who chews anxiously on his bottom lip.

The kid sniffles and tries to pull Combeferre closer. He managed to fist a hand in Combeferre’s shirt whilst he checked him over, some sort of comfort, and hasn’t let go since. He looks terrified, and every time he breathes his whole chest rises and then stutters. He’s starting to wheeze, sounding closer to eighty-five than eight.

“I’m not sure how many inhalers will be left,” says Combeferre, “Not without factories to make them. They’re not exactly a necessity when it comes to first aid for most of the surviving population.”

“What?” asks the little boy, and devolves into a coughing fit after.

Grantaire really fucking wishes Combeferre wasn’t so blunt all the time. “But there’s a chance there will be some?” he asks.

“Yeah, in the government’s main supplies. They probably have a stock, for if they ever need them.”

“Feuilly will know the location,” says Enjolras. He stands with his arms crossed, looking thoughtful. Seeing that expression on his face makes dread settle in Grantaire’s stomach. “He worked with Marius to match up what they know of supply locations.”

Grantaire thinks it through. “I could get out,” he says. “Get the inhaler.”

Enjolras turns to look at him sharply, frowning. His lips purse with displeasure, but before he can speak Combeferre says, “We need to discuss this somewhere else.” He glances meaningfully at Gavroche and the boy, then back to Enjolras and Grantaire. “The others need to know.”

Gavroche’s eyes widen, he opens his mouth to say something but stops himself, his hands curling into fists at his sides. Grantaire, well-versed in Gavroche and his little quirks, steps forwards to put a hand on his shoulder. “We’re not going to forget about him,” he says. “I promise. I won’t let them.”

Combeferre unfolds himself and moves to stand with Enjolras, Grantaire can hear them talking in low voices. Even without being able to make out the words, he can tell that it’s urgent. Grantaire focuses his own attention solely on Gavroche. “I’ll get it myself, if I have to.”

Gavroche nods. “I trust you.”

Grantaire smiles, and moves one of his hands to ruffle his hair. Gavroche scowls and ducks out of the way, already moving back closer to his usual self. He shoves his hands into his jean pockets and glances down at the kid sitting on the floor next to him, then back up to Grantaire.

“I’ll get him somewhere safe,” he says. “Back to the Musain. Ep can keep an eye on him.”

Grantaire nods; it’s a good idea, and it will mean Gavroche is away from the sewers when the repercussions of him being caught come down on them all. The thought makes dread come creeping back, the knowledge that the government is not going to just let this pass. Not if the tracker holds the kind of information that will lead them right here.

“I’ll get the inhaler to you as soon as I can,” Grantaire promises.

“Grantaire,” says Enjolras, raising his voice to be heard. “We need to go.”

Grantaire nods, but doesn’t take his eyes away from Gavroche. He wants to say something else, something reassuring, but there aren’t words. Besides, Gavroche is starting to get twitchy again, and this time it’s not from fear. He wants to get going, wants to do something, wants to make a start on the job he has. He’s always at his best when he has a purpose, an outlet for his abundance of energy.

Tearing his eyes away, Grantaire glances over his shoulder to see Combeferre and Enjolras standing in wait for him. Enjolras looks worried, Combeferre is thoughtful, but his expression is far less severe than Grantaire’s ever seen it. Maybe the ill child warmed his heart, Grantaire thinks, in a way Grantaire himself never managed.

Grantaire looks back to Gavroche to say goodbye, finds that he’s already scarpered with the child. He shakes his head as a smile tugs at his lips, and leaves with Enjolras and Combeferre.

\- - - - -

Grantaire has never before thought about how the Amis call meetings. He assumes they have some sort of code or signal, but it turns out it’s just a big game of pass the message. Enjolras lets Bahorel know when they pass him on their way back into the central layer, then Courfeyrac when they happen to walk past him through the tunnels. Bahorel and Courfeyrac are clearly then expected to tell the others and round them all up in the planning room.

Grantaire follows along behind Combeferre and Enjolras, who have had their heads bowed together the whole time, talking hurriedly. He can see the tension in the line of Enjolras’s shoulders, knows he’s worried about what’s going to happen.

When they arrive at the planning room Combeferre goes in first. Enjolras holds back, and when Grantaire makes a move to follow after him, Enjolras grabs his arm to stop him. “Don’t go,” he says.

Grantaire blinks. “Don’t go into the planning room?”

“To get the inhaler for the kid,” Enjolras says, shaking his head. His fingers are tight on Grantaire’s arm. He sounds like he’s fighting to keep his tone calm, a request, rather than a demand.

It’s that alone which stops Grantaire from getting immediately angry, makes him take a deep breath before saying, “I promised Gavroche. I’m not going to give him hope and then take it away.”

“That’s not what I mean,” says Enjolras, and his grip on Grantaire’s arm relaxes slightly, so he’s holding him rather than grabbing. “I don’t want you to go. We can send Feuilly, he knows what he’s doing and where the supplies are. It’s his job. He’ll be there and back quicker than you.”

A part of him wants to be offended, but Grantaire knows it’s the truth. This is Feuilly’s job, afterall. Still, it makes him unsettled, and he wants to know why. “I could go with him.”

“No,” Enjolras says instantly, his grip tightening for a second. “Fuck,” he swears, and closes his eyes. Grantaire stares at him as takes a deep breath, not understanding at all what’s going on. When Enjolras reopens his eyes he’s made some sort of decision. He releases Grantaire’s arm finally and says, “I’m trying not to — I don’t want to order you. It’s your choice. But I don’t - I don’t want you to. You just admitted that you’re one of us and I don’t want to lose you again so quickly. It’s going to be dangerous and the government’s coming and — and I need you here, Grantaire. With me.”

It doesn’t feel real, hearing this from him. Grantaire can feel the hope that rises in his chest, tries to push it down. Here Enjolras is, on the eve of the biggest thread his organisation has faced, and instead of being in the room next to them planning what to do, he’s out here asking Grantaire to stay.

Grantaire takes in a slow breath, trying to still the rapid beating of his heart. He wants to go out and help Feuilly, wants to be the one to get the inhaler and give it to Gavroche, but he knows Enjolras is speaking sense. Feuilly can do the job just fine without him. Grantaire’s not needed, and really, leaving is just putting his own life in danger when it’s not necessary.

Not to mention, putting Feuilly’s life in danger also. Feuilly knows how to get the supplies, has been doing it for many years. Grantaire is well-meaning but he’s also inexperienced.

“Okay,” he says. “I won’t go. I’ll stay here.”

The smile Enjolras gives him lights up his whole face, Grantaire feels an answering one tugging at his own lips in response. It feels like a serious step, for them, like for once they’re both on the same page.

Then Bahorel and Feuilly turn the corner, appearing in the tunnel with loud conversation and footsteps, and Grantaire tears his eyes away from Enjolras to look at them.

“Hey,” Bahorel says, “Are we late? I couldn’t find this fucker anywhere. Turns out he was having a nap—”

“It wasn’t a nap,” Feuilly protests angrily. It’s clear they’ve been debating this the whole walk here. “I was _recharging_ after having only four hours sleep.”

“Give as many excuses as you want, it was still a nap,” Bahorel replies. “Grantaire agrees with me, don’t you?”

“Uh.”

“Of course he doesn’t,” Feuilly cuts in, and their conversation leads them in to the planning room. Enjolras’s hand brushes Grantaire’s for a brief second as they step through the doorway together, then is gone before Grantaire can really register it. He’s still staring down at his own hand when Feuilly and Bahorel manoeuvre him into a seat.

Courfeyrac, Marius, and Bossuet already beat them to the room. Joly comes in not long after Grantaire and the others, with Jehan appearing a few minutes later, rushed and out of breath. He has his headphones curled around his neck and he slumps down into a chair next to Grantaire with a rush of expelled air.

“I was in the middle of a show,” he explains, flashing a small smile at Grantaire. “What did I miss?”

“Nothing, yet,” Grantaire replies, his eyes on the front where Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras are in deep discussion. He runs his thumb over his fingertips as he watches them, biting down on his bottom lip in thought.

Combeferre notices Jehan’s arrival before the other two, is the one to clear his throat and say, “I think that’s everyone.”

Enjolras does a sweep of the room then to check, and nods when he counts everyone there. He takes charge of explaining the information they just received, a speech Grantaire mostly tunes out. Half his attention is back on Gavroche and the kid, with the rest on the conversation with Enjolras, and what it meant.

There’s a ripple of shock through the room when they realise the gravity of Enjolras’s words, that the government has hold of the tracker again and could potentially use it to find them. Jehan piggy-backed his own version of a tracker in it before giving it to Gavroche, so they would always be able to find him. Grantaire reaches out to take Jehan’s hand when the gravity of this realisation hits him, seeing his shoulders slump no doubt with the thought that part of it is his fault.

Enjolras’s eyes flicker to their joined hands for a second and he frowns, but his speech doesn’t falter. Grantaire tightens his grip on Jehan’s hand and leans over to say, “It was always going to happen, it’s not your fault. Don’t blame yourself.”

Jehan gives him a small smile but looks unconvinced, the fingers of his free hand nervously playing with the straps on his own utility belt.

There’s a cacophony of sound once Enjolras finishes speaking, everyone talking over each other as they try to get answers first. There’s fear clear in every word that they say, the worry that this really is it. “We’re getting out, aren’t we?” asks Bossuet. “We can’t face them, not head-on.”

Bahorel nods. “Even with the people in the second layer, we wouldn’t be able to do it. They have better equipment, more training.”

It’s exactly what Grantaire himself is thinking - it seems like the only logical choice - but Courfeyrac is shaking his head. “Aren’t you tired?” he asks. “Of always running? All we do is dodge and hide from the government, taking to shadows and tunnels and darkness. We fucking live in the sewers, for God’s sake. Isn’t this our time to take them head-on?”

“Head-on and get _killed_?” Bahorel returns, pointed.

“It’s not suicide, to want to stand your ground,” Courfeyrac replies, stubborn. It’s the most annoyed Grantaire has ever seen him, the idealistic man behind all the charm.

“If we face them here,” says Enjolras, joining Courfeyrac’s side, “We’re on _our_ ground. This is _our_ world. We know it better than they do, we know its secrets. They might have more weapons but we have more tunnels, and we know how to use them. It’s the home ground advantage.”

Bahorel frowns, but he concedes the point. Bossuet still looks a little troubled. It’s Joly who says, “What about the second layer?”

“We get them out,” Courfeyrac replies instantly, “Before the government gets here. The people in the second layer are under our protection, it’s our duty to keep them safe.”

“Everyone is offered a choice,” says Enjolras, words Grantaire had never expected to hear. He hears Jehan take a sharp breath in at his side, and realises he’s just squeezed Jehan’s hand so hard he’s turned it white.

 _Sorry_ , Grantaire mouths, releasing his hand, as Enjolras continues, “They can stay with us if they want, but if they don’t, if they want to be safe, then we help them get away. No one stays here unless they want to, and _no one_ is judged for wanting to leave.” For a second it looks like he’s glancing over at Grantaire, but then his attention is entirely focused on Joly.

The others still don’t look entirely convinced.

Combeferre clears his throat and says, “We have reason to believe that we’ve been given a sign. Gavroche was rescued by a blonde woman with a description close to that of Cosette’s. We can’t know for sure, but Gavroche also said that she told him it’s _time_. We think it means this is the sign she spoke about.”

The noise level in the room shoots right up. Everyone clamours to be heard over the people around them. Grantaire himself just sits there stunned; he’d been convinced that this ‘sign’ would never come - and who even said that this was the sign?

“Fucking hell,” says Bahorel.

“We make our stand now,” Enjolras says. “Or we risk losing the support we have from within. This is our chance.”

“You really think it’s her?” Joly asks Combeferre.

Combeferre looks grave. He nods. “Gavroche’s description sounded very similar to the girl Enjolras, Grantaire, and Courfeyrac met. Enjolras is right, it’s too good of an opportunity to miss.”

Grantaire’s heart sinks at his words, knowing already that the others have been won over. He can feel it in the atmosphere in the room, the buzzing undercurrent that feels like an electric charge. The idea that they have supporters from within, that this is a sign, it’s filled them all with the belief that they can overthrow the government, that they can make change.

“Jehan, we need you to get a message to the masses. Tell them that the time is finally here, what we’ve been telling them about. Put on an extra show, too, however many you think you’ll need to get the word out to everyone.”

At Grantaire’s side, Jehan nods once, grim determination coming across his expression.

“Bahorel and Bossuet,” says Enjolras, turning his attention to another point in the room, “You two know the security of the tunnels better than anyone.”

Joly nods, agreeing. “Do you want the supplies to stay here or give some to them?”

“Give them what they need,” Combeferre answers. “Within reason. We need everything we can to survive what’s going to happen. All weapons, all medical supplies, we don’t know what kind of force they’re going to send down but it’s not going to be pretty.”

“Feuilly,” Enjolras says, to get his attention, “We have something we need you to do first.”

Feuilly looks surprised but gets to his feet, walks over to talk to Enjolras about the inhaler for the kid. And it’s stupid, Grantaire _knows_ it’s stupid, but something warms in his heart to see that even in the midst of the biggest threat his cause has ever faced, Enjolras is keeping to his word and helping one child.

The conversations go on from there, breaking off and splintering as everyone starts to plan. Jehan gets up from his seat to join Combeferre in discussion about the tracker and how long they have. If there’s anything they can do to distort the signal. Grantaire remains in his seat, just watching everyone plan all around him.

Everyone, that is, but Marius.

Marius, who sits to one side biting his bottom lip, looking worried, and Grantaire knows instantly he’s about to do something stupid.

Grantaire gets to his feet and walks over, drags a chair across to sit down facing Marius. Marius’s expression is far away; he blinks when he realises Grantaire is there and then says, “Grantaire—”

“You’re about to do something stupid, aren’t you?” Grantaire asks.

Marius has always been an awful liar. He flushes red and turns his head. “No.”

“Whatever it is, don’t do it. This is not the time for heroics.”

“This is _definitely_ the time for heroics,” Marius protests desperately, looking back at him. “I know the government. I know my grandfather. I know the kind of soldiers he’ll send in and what they’ll do. They won’t want to negotiate. It will be shoot now, ask questions never, even if - even if Cosette has managed to find others.”

Hearing it put so bluntly makes Grantaire’s whole world spin, a sickening lurch that takes him back years to saying the very same thing. To trying desperately to get Enjolras to stay, because his cause could only lead him to death.

“I have to go,” Marius is saying, still talking. “I have to try and reach her. I have to make sure that she’s with us and that there’s a chance for this to work. I have to see her.”

“Cosette?” Grantaire asks. “You want to find Cosette?”

“I have to,” Marius says. “We need her.”

Grantaire stares with his mouth open, not entirely sure how to respond. Courfeyrac appears at Marius’s shoulder then, saying, “I can get you out before Bahorel and Bossuet lock us down, and show you the way to get back in. But you have to be quick. I heard Combeferre and Jehan, they don’t think it will be more than twenty-four hours. Could you find her in that time?”

“Yes,” says Marius, nodding quickly. “Definitely. I mean - I could try. I _will_ try. I’ll find her.”

Courfeyrac gives him a genuine smile. “We have to run it by Enjolras, first.”

Marius nods and scrambles to his feet. Grantaire watches as the two of them join Enjolras and Feuilly. Feuilly says one last thing to Enjolras, who nods, then turns and heads for the door. As Feuilly leaves, Enjolras focuses his attention on Courfeyrac and Marius, listening carefully to what it is Marius wants to do.

Grantaire wants to join in, wants to help, but all he can think about is what Marius said and how likely it is that these men will die. He’s always known they would - there’s a reason he never went along with them - but he’d attempted to drown that knowledge in alcohol and barricade himself behind loneliness. He’d never wanted to see them die, yet here he is, in the middle of it all when it’s very likely that by this time tomorrow, they’ll all be dead.

He lets the conversations carry on around him, wishing desperately for some sort of alcohol. He looks up when Marius rushes for the door, so eager in his determination to help that he doesn’t even stop to say goodbye. Grantaire watches him go, and wonders if he’ll ever see him again.

Part of him doesn’t want to; if Marius doesn’t make it back, then surely that means he’ll make it out of here alive. He doesn’t really pay attention to the others after that, not until someone sits down opposite him in the chair Marius vacated.

He looks up in confusion to see Combeferre.

“Gavroche’s friend will be fine,” he says, and it takes Grantaire a moment to realise he’s attempting to be reassuring. “Feuilly’s good, he’ll get the inhaler to him in time. He already knew where some were being kept, he came across them on a previous raid.”

“Okay,” says Grantaire, knowing that this isn’t really why Combeferre sat down to talk to him.

“This is the worst threat we’ve ever faced,” Combeferre says. “We all need to be focused on getting out of it alive.”

Grantaire nods cautiously, waiting for the punch line. “Enjolras needs to be focused,” Combeferre continues. “He’s our leader, our symbol. He’s the one who gives the rest of us hope. If he thinks we can survive, then so do we. A lot will be resting on him in the next few hours.”

Ah. There it is. The subtle implication that Grantaire is a distraction, that it might be better if he were not around. He starts to reply, “Look—”

But Combeferre interrupts, “It’s going to be hard on him, the next few hours. He’s always known what the stakes will be, but that doesn’t make the weight any easier to carry. He does not need to be hurt again. If someone does, I’ll personally make sure they don’t live out the night.”

Grantaire’s perception shifts. “Wait, are you saying—” but he’s cut off by Bossuet, who comes over to ask Combeferre something. Combeferre gets to his feet quickly to answer, leading Bossuet back over to Courfeyrac, leaving Grantaire staring after him in shock.

On the surface, it had sounded like a threat, a revisit to the last time Combeferre had spoken to him, but there was something off about it, something different this time. Like he wasn’t exactly telling Grantaire to go, but also that he still wasn’t sure if he should say.

The meeting breaks up soon after that, Bahorel and Bossuet disappearing to start clearing out the second layer, Jehan and Joly going with them to start sorting out medical supplies. Grantaire leaves Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre in deep discussion, follows Jehan and Joly to the medical room to give himself something to do.

A strange feeling settles over them as they work, spiking and unsure. There’s no easy conversation or light-hearted teasing. They’re all focused on their task, wondering if they will make it through the night, if it really was Cosette, if the sign was true and this is finally the opportunity for the Amis to get what they’ve always wanted.

They work for several hours, rationing out supplies for Bahorel and Bossuet when they turn up, for the second layer, then putting the rest in easily-accessible places for themselves. The others seem more optimistic about the impending firefight, talking eagerly about what might happen after, should Cosette and the other soldiers join them and help them to win.

They stop for something to eat a little while later, then get straight back into it as the hours continue to pass. When they’re finally done, Jehan makes some comment about planning to go back to his radio, Joly mentions maybe getting some sleep, and Grantaire frowns.

“This is stupid,” Grantaire says, leaning back against the half-empty counters. “We shouldn’t — this might be our last night together, it’s not how we should all go.” Jehan flinches at the word ‘go’ and Joly gives Grantaire a sharp look for his assertion that they will not make it out alive.

Regardless, Grantaire continues, “I don’t want my last few hours to be alone.”

Jehan half-smiles. “What do you want? For us to throw a party?”

“No,” replies Grantaire. “Well - yes. Sort of. You guys have alcohol stashed away, right? We should drink it. Fucking hell, we’re all possibly about to die for each other, shouldn’t we spend our last hours reminding ourselves what it’s all for?”

Joly’s smile is bright and dawning, even as he says, “We’re not going to die.”

“A party sounds good,” Jehan admits. “Well, spending time together. Not so much the drinking. I don’t want a hangover when the government comes to find us. But spending time with each other, that sounds nice.”

“It does,” Joly admits. “One last drink at the end of the world.”


	6. Chapter 6

Grantaire isn’t sure who organises it or how, just knows that a few hours later they’re all in the room with the makeshift bar. Courfeyrac holds court here; Enjolras is undoubtedly the leader of the Amis, the one they all look to for inspiration and guidance, but in the social sphere, when the only orders are to relax and have a good time, Courfeyrac comes into his own.

Courfeyrac’s regaling them all with some story now from before, from when the Amis were just a half-formed thought in Enjolras’s mind and they hadn’t yet even arrived at the Musain. Grantaire knows how the story ends and so he’s just watching the others’ expressions, taking the time to remember them as they are.

Joly and Bossuet sit close together, the kind of couple that doesn’t have to be talking or even touching to be content. Jehan’s curled up in a seat next to Grantaire, his knees pulled up to his chin as he watches Courfeyrac, arms wrapped around his legs. Bahorel sits across from them, the only one with a serious drink, apart from Grantaire. So far he’s matching him drink-for-drink, but Grantaire wonders if that’s more to do with the fact Feuilly still hasn’t returned, than the impending arrival of the government.

Combeferre isn’t too far from Courfeyrac, watching with a fond look in his eyes. All the Amis are dressed in their black gear, ready for the fight, but his is more casual than Grantaire’s ever seen it, the sleeves of his black jumper rolled up to the elbows. Enjolras is a little outside of the group, just watching, his arms crossed over his chest as he leans back against the wall.

Marius has not yet returned; it feels odd, now, that he’s not around. He’s well and truly become one of them.

And so has Grantaire.

Courfeyrac finishes his story to a round of laughter, Grantaire pretends to glare when half of it is sent in his direction. He doesn’t mind a good joke, even if it’s at his expense, and the situation with the school kid and the medical kit and the water gun really had been ridiculous from start to finish.

Even if it really hadn’t felt that way at the time, when Grantaire had been ranting and swearing up to high hell. Enjolras catches his eye, obviously thinking the same thing, his lips twitching into a smile and Grantaire has to look away before he starts laughing in reply.

“I’d forgotten all about that,” Enjolras says to him, later, when they’ve all broken off into their own little conversations. “You were so pissed when you realised it wasn’t a real gun.”

“I didn’t exactly see you correcting her,” Grantaire points out grumpily, though it’s only half-hearted. “You know, when she was pointing it straight at me and making threats.”

“You looked like you had it completely under control,” Enjolras replies, and Grantaire has to close the distance between them to nudge him with his shoulder, for that. Enjolras’s body moves away at first as he half-laughs, then comes back to rest against Grantaire’s, so their sides are pressed together from shoulder to hip.

They fall into silence, amiable where it hasn’t been in years. It’s a nice change, to the arguments and glaring and picking fights. There’s so much unresolved between them still, but Grantaire knows that tonight isn’t the night for that. He just wants to enjoy his last few hours with his friends, with the people who became his family when so many others were wiped out.

The thought leads him on to Marius, who’s practically become like a little brother to him. A little brother who is growing up and making his own way in the world, who no longer, it seems, needs Grantaire to look out for him.

“Any word from Marius?” he asks.

Enjolras glances across at him, then back over at where Combeferre and Courfeyrac sit talking. “Not yet,” he replies, and he tries to hide it, but Grantaire can tell that he’s worried. It’s not worth thinking about what will happen, if Marius doesn’t manage to track down Cosette.

“He’ll be in touch,” Grantaire says, wishing he was as convinced as he sounds.

There’s a commotion then by the door and Grantaire turns his head to see Feuilly walking through. Grantaire takes a step towards him before he realises what he’s doing, then hesitates at the same moment Feuilly notices him. Feuilly smiles grimly at him and heads over, and Grantaire feels his chest tighten as he wonders what that expression means. He doesn’t know Feuilly well enough and it’s hard to tell, and he doesn’t know what he’ll do if it didn’t work, if he didn’t find the inhaler, if he didn’t get it to Gavroche in time—

His thoughts stop jumping when a warm hand settles on his arm, calming, and he takes a breath to settle his nerves. Enjolras’s grip is gentle; he doesn’t pull his hand away when Feuilly finally reaches them.

“I found one,” Feuilly says, looking at Grantaire, though he glances across at Enjolras for a second. The relief that floods through Grantaire almost staggers him. “I don’t know if it’s the right one, it matched the description Combeferre gave. Gavroche has the orphans at the Musain, Éponine’s finding places for them to wait it out. I spoke to a couple of the men there, told them that we had support. A few came back with me.”

It’s clear from his tone of voice that far more decided to stay. That’s the Musain for you; neutral till the end. Its patrons would wait out the oncoming battle, see which side came out victorious then go in to see what they could scavenge from the ruins.

“Éponine’s fine too,” Feuilly adds. “She said she misses you, but she’s glad you’re no longer alone.” Grantaire coughs and looks away, embarrassed, as Feuilly continues, “She also said that there’s always a place there, for you.”

Enjolras’s hand slips away, Grantaire barely notices as the warmth seeps from his body. He’s not stopped to think about how much he misses Éponine, but hearing about her now makes the ache suddenly real. He wishes he had gone to see her before this happened, found some way to get out and to say goodbye.

At least he managed to get Gavroche back to her, he thinks.

“We tried the inhaler,” Feuilly is saying, “but I couldn’t stick around to see if it works. I did what I could.”

Grantaire is intensely grateful. He says so as much when he replies, “Thank you. It means a lot.”

Feuilly, never one for knowing how to take compliments, looks awkward and rubs the back of his neck with his hand. He shrugs one shoulder and says, “Just doing my job.”

“Then let me at least give you some form of payment.” Grantaire pulls away from Enjolras to lead Feuilly back over to the makeshift bar. A few more people have had drinks now, enough to get merry, but everyone’s still being careful not to get drunk. Grantaire finds what looks like a bottle of vodka, pours out a generous shot for Feuilly and himself.

“What are we toasting to?” Feuilly asks, curling his thumb and forefinger around the glass, looking dubiously at the clear liquid inside.

Grantaire, who has never needed an excuse to drink, shrugs. “Whatever you want. It may be our last.”

Feuilly looks thoughtful. When he glances up at Grantaire a few seconds later, his eyes hazel eyes are soft, they crinkle at the edges when he smiles. “To days gone by,” he says, and chinks the edge of his glass against Grantaire’s.

They down the shots together.

Jehan catches on then, comes over to get some alcohol to make his own toast, and Joly follows suit. Enjolras has returned to his place at the wall, just watching them, and Grantaire tips the bottle in his direction. “To death,” Grantaire says, “And greeting him with arms wide open.”

He might have acknowledged that they’re all going to die - but it doesn’t mean that he’s accepted it. He doesn’t tear his eyes away from Enjolras as he speaks, watches as Enjolras’s perfect brows draw together in a frown.

The others all seem in good spirits, happy to just enjoy each other’s company. Now that Feuilly’s back they get even more chatty, discussing what the world will be like if they succeed.

It all leaves an ashy taste in Grantaire’s mouth, bitter and smoky. Why is it that these men cannot see that they could die? They’re throwing their lives away for a sign that may not even be a sign, on the word of a girl who may have been lying, and all of it for what? Just to topple a government whose ideals didn’t agree with their own?

He realises he no longer wants to drink.

He doesn’t even register that Enjolras is still frowning at him, just turns and walks straight from the room. Jehan looks up at him as he goes, but Grantaire just waves his hand, waving him off, and steps out into the darkened tunnel. The conversation is muffled out here, muted, but it still seems to wrap itself around him, a layer of cotton wool.

He fights through it as he takes a step away and then two. Is on his third when he hears footsteps behind him and his fourth when Enjolras says, “Grantaire.”

He doesn’t stop walking ( _five, six, seven_ ), just keeps going, determined. He doesn’t want to face this, he’s been running from it for so long ( _eight, nine, ten_ ).

“Grantaire, wait!” Enjolras calls after him, footsteps loud on the concrete as he tries to catch him.

Grantaire steels himself against it, walking faster, loses count of how many steps he’s taken when Enjolras says, “For fuck’s sake, Grantaire, stop!”

“No—” Grantaire starts to say, is cut off abruptly when Enjolras grabs hold of the front of his shirt and actually slams him back against the wall of the tunnel. For a second Grantaire’s vision goes black, then he regains his senses enough to reach his hands up to Enjolras’s, fingers wrapping around his wrists.

“What the hell was that?” Enjolras demands, “Back there? About how we’re going to die? This isn’t a game, Grantaire, it’s not something you can just joke about.”

“What the fuck?” Grantaire replies. “I wasn’t joking about.”

“Then why the hell did you say it? I get that you don’t believe in what we’re trying to do, I get that, but that’s no reason to go saying that we’re all going to die.”

“Why?” Grantaire asks, and it’s the fear that makes him bitter as he presses, “Is it because you’re scared? Are you mad at me because I might have a point? That tomorrow you’ll all be dead and no one will care?”

Enjolras swears violently, and tightens his grip on the front of Grantaire’s shirt, pushing him back further against the rough brick. “Stop it, Grantaire. Why are you doing this?”

And Grantaire laughs, and it’s bitter, and he’s completely bared open when he says, “Because I am. I am scared that you’ll die - that you will _all_ die.That tomorrow I might wake up in a world that doesn’t have you in it. For fuck’s sake, Enjolras, I love you, I always have! And I know that all you wanted back then was a fling, that you just wanted something you could easily throw away, but it was never like that for me and the idea that you might die—”

“What the hell,” says Enjolras, and he sounds so furious Grantaire’s mind screeches to a halt and he stops mid-sentence. “What the hell,” Enjolras repeats, furious and dark, and Grantaire would take a step back away from him, if he wasn’t already backed up against the wall, “gave you the impression it was only a fling?”

Grantaire’s mind goes blank. “What?”

He’s abruptly glad he can’t get words out, when Enjolras says, “Since when did you think that what we had was only a fling?”

“Since,” Grantaire starts to say, but it’s hard, when Enjolras is so close and he’s so _furious_ and Grantaire can’t work out what he’s done to get him to this point, “Since the start?”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” says Enjolras, and releases him.

Grantaire staggers slightly with the sudden removal of Enjolras’s hands from his shirt. He takes a step forwards to steady himself, putting one hand back on the wall. His palm grazes rough stone as Enjolras says, “It was never a fling.”

He’s pretty sure he feels his knees buckle, is abruptly glad for the hand he put back against the wall to steady himself. “What?” he asks, hoarse.

“It was never a fucking fling, what the fuck, how did you even get that idea?” Enjolras demands, “I thought I made it clear when I came to you that first time, when I said _I need this_.”

Grantaire remembers it, remembers it vividly. The serious look in Enjolras’s eyes and the set to his jaw, the way he’d tackled asking Grantaire to sleep with him like he was a problem to be solved, as if he needed to get it out of his system, an outlet for sexual frustration, and Grantaire just so happened to be a willing option.

“No,” Grantaire replies, shaking his head. “No, you didn’t. And then you left.”

“And you didn’t come with,” Enjolras points out, the same argument that Courfeyrac had made.

“Because I didn’t want to hold you back,” Grantaire replies. “I could tell you had your cause now, you didn’t need me. You had more important things to be thinking about.”

“More important—” Enjolras cuts himself off with an indignant sound. Abruptly, he’s back up in Grantaire’s personal space, fisting his hands in the front of Grantaire’s shirt. Only he’s using the grip to pull him closer this time, not push him away, and Grantaire goes willingly, his hands moving of their own accord to rest on Enjolras’s waist.

“Having ideals and loving you are not two mutually exclusive things,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire’s mind just kind of, blanks out, at the words ‘loving you’. “I can do both. I did do both. I do.”

His hands trail up from Grantaire’s chest to his neck, fingers curling around the back of his neck. The thumb of his left hand trails over the scar there, making Grantaire close his eyes for a second. When he opens them again Enjolras is somehow even closer, and Grantaire’s mind is all sorts of completely useless, by this point.

“How the hell did you not know?” Enjolras asks, “How did you not—” and then abruptly he just cuts himself off and surges forwards to kiss him, clearly deciding that actions speak louder than words. It’s not the most elegant kiss Grantaire’s ever had - their teeth clack and he hisses in a breath when Enjolras bites down on his bottom lip - but then Enjolras tilts his head and one of the hands on his neck becomes a hand in his hair and _oh_.

Grantaire tightens his grip on Enjolras’s waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, he’s sure, but he’s never been one to just go along passively. He gives as good as he gets, pressing forwards to meet Enjolras, trying to convey everything he’s been holding inside for the last _five fucking years_ and it’s almost a vindication when he hears Enjolras take in a surprised breath, a gasp that Grantaire chases with his mouth, wanting to hear it again.

The hand in his hair tugs even tighter, a sharp edge of pain that sparks through his entire body and he wants _more_. He wants all of Enjolras, he wants everything he hasn’t had in so long and more.

It’s Enjolras who finally closes the last bit of distance between them, pressing a leg between Grantaire’s, against trousers which are already becoming too tight and Grantaire swears, pulling away from the kiss. “Fuck, Enjolras—”

The grin Enjolras sends him in response is _wicked_ , and there’s a blush high on his cheeks and his lips are red when they curve as he says lightly, “Yes?” and presses his leg even harder against Grantaire.

Grantaire bites back a whine and digs his fingers harder into Enjolras’s sides, but Enjolras doesn’t even react to the pain, just leans in to graze his teeth along the side of Grantaire’s neck and fuck - there’s no way he could have _remembered_ \- but then there’s warm breath ghosting over that point behind his ear and Grantaire’s eyes actually flutter.

“You know,” Enjolras says, each word murmured against Grantaire’s skin as he just leans back against the wall and tries to remember how to breathe, “I’ve been thinking about doing this ever since you came back. Every argument. When we were sparring. I just wanted to slam you back against the nearest wall and make you moan.”

One of Grantaire’s hands finds the wall behind him, scrabbles for purchase on the rough stone as he tries to get his thoughts in order. Now it’s all he can think about too, imagining it in vivid detail. “So why—” he has to clear his throat to get the words out, “Why didn’t you?”

Enjolras leans back to look him in the eye, and Grantaire’s body protests the absence, curving after him before he manages to stop himself. “I thought you weren’t interested,” Enjolras replies, and Grantaire’s stare must be absurd, because Enjolras’s lips quirk slightly. He glances down, then, at where his leg pins Grantaire to the wall, and the hardness in Grantaire’s trousers they both can’t ignore. “Seems I was wrong.”

“So wrong,” Grantaire agrees. “As always.”

Emboldened by Enjolras’s words he trails his left hand up from his side to the side of his neck, marvels at how Enjolras just lets him, doesn’t try to fight him off. Not even when Grantaire curls his fingers slightly, to trail the edges of his nails against the exposed skin at Enjolras’s neck. He watches with amazement as Enjolras’s eyes half-close and he takes in a shaky breath.

“How could I not want you?” Grantaire asks. “How could _anyone_ not want you?”

Enjolras’s brows draw together in a frown at that, unimpressed. Grantaire continues on, anyway, because he knows he needs to get this out, knows he needs to admit it. “I tried,” he says quietly. “To forget you: Fuck, I really did. There were a few others but they were never - they weren’t you.” There were always angry and passionate and dark-haired - never blond, no - and they always left in the morning and he never cared. “There’s no one like you.”

The frown is still there when Grantaire looks up to meet Enjolras’s eyes (the reminder that he’s an inch shorter always surprises him) but there’s no anger in them, just sadness. Enjolras’s hand uncurls itself from Grantaire’s hair and rests on his chest, palm flat against where his heart is, fingers spread out along his shirt.

Grantaire’s heart is thudding underneath his palm, and _surely_ Enjolras must feel it, must know that he’s terrified.

“There was no one else,” he says quietly. “Not for me.”

Grantaire’s pretty sure his heart stops.

“They weren’t you,” Enjolras says, and there’s that small little half-smile again, the truest one Grantaire’s ever seen. It’s gentle and real and nothing at all like the blindingly bright one he shows his crowds of supporters. It’s nervous and unsure and self-deprecating, three words Grantaire would never associate with Enjolras if he hadn’t ever seen this side of him before.

“I’m sorry,” Grantaire says, the words out before he even thinks them.

“Don’t be,” Enjolras replies. “You weren’t ready to come with us, and I wasn’t ready to compromise.”

“Are you ever?” Grantaire asks, and Enjolras pinches his side with the hand not on his chest.

“You’re here now,” Enjolras says. “And that’s what matters.”

And Grantaire just has to kiss him for that. He doesn’t rush in like Enjolras did; this time he leans in carefully, one hand on the side of Enjolras’s neck as his other searches out his hand. He finds it and links their fingers together, pulling Enjolras the last inch to close the distance between them.

The kiss is soft, gentle. Nothing at all like a few seconds ago. Grantaire’s breath is shakey when their lips brush, then stolen completely when Enjolras closes his eyes and kisses him back. Grantaire’s heart is still thudding in his chest, but he’s getting used to it, now, to the feeling of stepping off into the unknown and plummeting into freefall.

Enjolras grounds him in reality, curves the hand not entwined with his around his arm and pulls their bodies flush against each other. The kiss gets harder then, Grantaire tilts his head and parts his lips and then there’s _tongue_ and all coherent thought leaves him altogether. He drowns himself in the feeling of Enjolras against him, presses as tightly as he can and groans when their hips press together.

He’s not sure who makes the suggestion to move from the tunnel, or how they even get to Enjolras’s room, but the next time his thoughts reassemble themselves he’s pulling his shirt off over his head as Enjolras closes and locks a door behind him.

Enjolras’s hair is wild, the red cowl dishevelled and pushed down around his shoulders. It gives Grantaire no small pleasure to pull it off completely, a long spool of red fabric that tangles around his feet as Enjolras puts hands on his hips and guides him back towards the bed. The back of Grantaire’s knees hit the bed first and he sits down abruptly, but rather than following him instantly, Enjolras holds back, standing between his legs. He has his planning face on.

Grantaire frowns. “What are you…”

His voice trails off and dies when Enjolras starts unfastening the buckles and straps on his jacket and gear. It should not be sexy at all and yet it is, as Enjolras divests himself of various weapons and items of clothes ruthlessly and efficiently, dropping everything carelessly to the floor with his cowl.

“Christ, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, when Enjolras is finally topless in front of him, and he just has to get his mouth on all that skin, he _has_ to - and so he does.

Enjolras lets out a surprised sound when Grantaire tugs him forwards onto his lap, mouthing kisses along his collarbone then up the far-too-perfect column of his throat. Enjolras tilts his head back and just _lets him_ , his body a warm weight above Grantaire’s, his fingers just playing with the strands of Grantaire’s hair as he indulges him.

Enjolras’s breathing gets quicker when Grantaire presses closer, when the scruff of his jaw burns his skin. “You didn’t have this before,” Enjolras says, and one of his hands moves so he can drag his thumb along the stubble on Grantaire’s chin. “I like it.”

Grantaire stops sucking a bruise into Enjolras’s neck to grin, and purposefully turns his head into Enjolras’s hand. Enjolras smiles down at him, running his fingers over his jawline to curve under his neck. This thumb comes to rest on Grantaire’s bottom lip, pulling it down slightly. “You should keep it,” Enjolras says.

There’s something to his tone, a slight undercurrent, almost an order. Grantaire has always loved that voice, feels himself responding to it even now. “Is that an order or a request?” he asks, and his tongue brushes the pad of Enjolras’s thumb as he speaks.

Enjolras arches an eyebrow at him, and Grantaire’s resolve just melts.

“Sure,” Grantaire says, “I’ll keep it,” and is rewarded with another of those smiles from Enjolras, who replaces his thumb with his mouth. His body arches under Grantaire’s hands as he slides them up his back to the wings of his shoulder blades, follows him down when Grantaire holds tight and lowers himself back onto the bed.

They don’t do much talking after that; Grantaire lets his body do it for him, responding and opening up to Enjolras’s touch as easily as breathing. It’s the same as it was back then, Enjolras in control and taking what he wants, only this time he stops, occasionally, to check that Grantaire’s okay, that he wants this.

Years ago, he had mistaken this for Enjolras just wanting to get rid of all his sexual frustration, using Grantaire for his own means (not that he had been complaining). But now he sees it as something else, as Enjolras devoting all his attention to Grantaire, that singular focus narrowing down to just him, Enjolras’s whole world becoming Grantaire.

And Grantaire is more than happy to let him, more than happy to arch up against him and curl a leg around his body to pull him even closer.

And more than happy, this time, to push back, to take a little, to be selfish, because this time he knows that Enjolras, fuck, Enjolras _loves him_ , and waited _five years_ for him, and he w _ants_ Grantaire. Every time he pushes back, Enjolras’s lips quirk slightly, that fond little smile, even when Grantaire’s crying out his name and scoring his nails down his back.

When it’s over, Enjolras doesn’t leave, just rolls off Grantaire and spreads himself out against his side. His body is covered in a thin sheen of sweat and his hair is tangled and knotted from where Grantaire had his hands in it, but he still looks fucking glorious. It’s stupidly unfair, and Grantaire tells him so, grumbling under his breath as he settles down and turns his head into the pillow.

“So are you,” Enjolras replies sleepily, both eyes closed. He reaches out an arm to wrap around Grantaire’s waist, pulling him close.

Grantaire snorts, because they both know he’s not, but he’s still on the comedown and so his pessimism is keeping itself at bay, for now. “Wait till you see me the morning after,” he replies, and lets sleep finally come to claim him.

\- - - - -

When Grantaire wakes up again he’s not sure how many hours have passed, or where exactly he is. He throws his arm out across the bed, groping for the body he knows should be there, and finds nothing.

His eyes snap open at the realisation and he takes in a sharp breath. He’s about to sit up in the bed when a voice says, “It’s okay, I’m here.”

His gaze finally focuses on the person sitting at the end of his bed, dressed head-to-toe in black and armed with several weapons. Enjolras is frowning, and it makes something settle, heavy, in Grantaire’s chest. He pushes himself up onto his elbows and then sits up properly, running the back of his hand across the stubble on his jaw.

“Everything okay?” Grantaire asks carefully.

“There’s one last way out,” Enjolras replies, which is not what Grantaire expected him to say, at all. Enjolras doesn’t look at him as he says, “It’s an escape route, for now. For those who - if anyone wants to leave before the government forces arrive.”

Grantaire can already guess where this is going, the knot in his stomach sinks and tightens. He looks down at his hands as he drops them to his lap, curling into fists. “Oh,” he says.

“I can show you where it is.”

Grantaire blinks and looks up. “What?”

“We have enough time,” Enjolras says, still not looking at him, “If you want to leave, and go back to the Musain. You heard what Feuilly said, about Éponine. There’s a place there for you, and you won’t have to - if things don’t work here, you won’t have to die.”

It’s such a ridiculous thing to say that Grantaire can only stare at him, and when Enjolras looks at him finally, he seems to take it as some sort of sign. “I know you don’t believe in our cause, so you don’t have to die with us if things don’t work out, you can just—”

“Oh my God,” says Grantaire, cutting him off.

Enjolras frowns at him, confused, and Grantaire just has to lean forwards and kiss the expression away. Enjolras doesn’t immediately respond, but he doesn’t lean away either, his whole body held still as he kisses Grantaire. “What?” asks Enjolras, when he pulls away.

“You’re my cause, you idiot,” replies Grantaire, “And if I die, it’s going to be with you.”

“Oh,” says Enjolras

This time, when Grantaire kisses him, he doesn’t hold himself back. Enjolras’s hands come up to grip hold of his shoulders, pushing him back onto the bed and climbing on top of him. Grantaire smiles into the kiss and pulls him closer, begins working at the clasps on Enjolras’s jacket so he can shove it back out of the way.

“Wait,” says Enjolras. “Stop.”

Grantaire frowns, stilling with his hands resting on Enjolras’s chest. Enjolras has his eyes closed, looking like he’s fighting an internal battle. When he opens them again, he says, “We can’t, not right now. I have to - I have to get back to the others.”

Grantaire scowls and throws himself back down onto the bed. “Fuck the others.”

Enjolras smiles. “Later,” he promises, leaning in again to kiss the side of Grantaire’s mouth. “When this is all over.”  He sits back properly and refastens the clasps Grantaire had worked open, smooths down his clothes and gets to his feet. “Get dressed. I’ll see you in the planning room.”

Grantaire carries on scowling, but it’s half-hearted. He’s too content and happy to put much force into it. Instead he just rolls onto his side and watches as Enjolras leaves the room, admiring the tight fabric of his clothes. Any marks Grantaire left last night have been covered up, but he knows they’re still there.

When the door closes behind Enjolras Grantaire gets to his feet, stretching out his arms above his head, popping muscles. He retraces his steps from the night before, collecting his clothes and re-dressing himself. He considers stopping off to get a new outfit, but figures it’s going to be pretty obvious what happened, as they both left the party within minutes of each other and then never came back.

\- - - - -

He’s back in the tunnels maybe five minutes before a person appears out of the shadows next to him and says, “So you two made up, then?”

“Jesus Christ,” replies Grantaire, startling.

Courfeyrac laughs, darting out of the way as Grantaire tries to elbow him. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

Grantaire glares at him.

“Hey,” says Courfeyrac, holding his hands up, “Don’t get mad at me. I won’t press for details if you don’t want to talk about why you and Enjolras disappeared from the party together. Or why neither of you came back. Or why you’re looking so smug and also wearing yesterday’s clothes and—”

He cuts off with a laugh as Grantaire makes a move to elbow him again. Courfeyrac’s able to dodge out of the way easily, bright and cheerful in the dim light of the tunnel. Despite his better judgement, Grantaire can feel himself smiling in response, and his attempts to hit Courfeyrac are half-hearted at best.

Giving up, Grantaire pushes his hands into his trouser pockets and says, “We talked,” feeling like an awkward teenager talking about his first date. “And now we’re - we’re good.”

Courfeyrac’s smile is huge. He throws an arm around Grantaire’s shoulder and pulls him in close to his side, saying, “It’s about time.”  He keeps his arm around Grantaire all the way to the training room.

The Amis have apparently made the training room their base of operations for the impending government invasion. It’s close enough to the surface that there are grates high in the ceiling which let in a trickle of sunlight. Two of the four entrance tunnels are blocked off, jammed full of various pieces of scrap in an attempt at defence. The other two - for now - are clear.

Grantaire’s attention is drawn straight to Enjolras, who is in full-tilt planning mode. There’s something urgent about his movements, an energy running just under the surface that makes him light up. Enjolras looks up when they walk in and his eyes meet Grantaire’s. He pauses in his conversation with Combeferre and smiles.

Grantaire smiles back.

“Oh my God, you two are nauseating,” Courfeyrac says, and drags Grantaire over to Feuilly.

Feuilly’s looking over what’s left of the weapons, most of them given out already to those who left, and the other supporters who decided to stay. He’s thoughtful as he surveys them, obviously trying to work out how long they will last, should things not work out how they want.

Bahorel’s giving his own brand of advice at Feuilly’s side, though he keeps pouting every time Feuilly reminds him that the weapons are a precaution; if Cosette stays true to her word and her supporters turn up, they won’t need to use them.

“Has Marius been in touch?” Grantaire asks, as he takes one of the knives from the wall rack and slides it into the empty sheath on his thigh. His katana is already waiting for him against the wall. He wraps a length of the strap around his hand and lifts it onto his back.

Feuilly winces. “No,” he admits. “Nothing yet.”

Grantaire frowns. It’s not like Marius to not be in touch. Even if he hasn’t yet found Cosette, he would still try and get word back to them. Grantaire knows that the longer Marius takes, the more some of the Amis will wonder if he is coming back, and the thought makes him uncomfortable.

According to Jehan’s predictions there’s not much time left for Marius and Cosette to return with the soldiers - if, indeed, what had happened with Gavroche had been a sign.

Grantaire tugs the strap on his katana into place and turns, catching Enjolras’s eye as he pulls up his cowl. Instantly, Grantaire knows what he’s going to say, is frowning before the words are even out of Enjolras’s mouth.

“I’m going out.”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac stand at either shoulder, bracketing Enjolras; the triumvirate in full force. Grantaire knows instantly that this is a joint decision, and he will get nothing by appealing to either of them.

He sighs.

Enjolras must take it the wrong way, because he rushes on to say, “I have to, Grantaire. I need to speak to the people, to encourage them to join us, to take this as their chance. Jehan’s been getting the message out, but it might not be enough, they need to see me. There isn’t long left before the government arrive.”

“I know,” replies Grantaire, and resists the urge to sigh again. He’d guessed as much the moment he saw Enjolras pull on his stupid red cowl again. “I’ll cover you.”

Enjolras blinks. “What?”

“You heard me,” replies Grantaire, and crosses his arms over his chest.

Enjolras looks like he isn’t sure what to say in response to that, whether to be happy or not. Grantaire makes the decision for him, stepping closer and dropping his voice so the others can’t hear. “I’m in this for you,” Grantaire says, low. “Until the end. I told you that. Don’t leave me behind again.”

Enjolras’s expression softens, his lips curving almost into a smile. Grantaire would lean forwards and kiss him, were they not in a room with other people - and Courfeyrac. Mostly Courfeyrac. Grantaire is pretty sure he can feel his burning need to know what they’re saying.

Instead, Grantaire just smiles back and says, “Is that a yes?”

“Fine,” says Enjolras. “You can come. But I’m doing the talking.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

They don’t need to explain it to the others; it’s painfully obvious that the Amis are all aware that their relationship has shifted. They gave them space as they talked; now as Grantaire steps back away from Enjolras again Combeferre says, “Jehan estimates you’ve got a window of about two to four hours. Maybe more, maybe less.” He shrugs one shoulder. “It’s hard to tell.”

Grantaire nods, knowing that he’s going to try and get Enjolras back sooner rather than later. Here, they are defended; here, they have weapons. On the surface is the government’s domain.

Enjolras leads the way through the tunnels, his red cowl like a beacon in the dark. Grantaire follows along behind him, trying to ignore the part of him that screams that they’re going in the wrong direction. They should be going away from the government, not towards. It goes against everything in his nature.

Enjolras leads him to what was once a tunnel leading to the second layer. People normally use this thoroughfare freely, but it’s been turned into some sort of dam, behind which crouch several people Grantaire only vaguely recognises. Supporters of the Amis, people he’s seen around, those men and women who have never quite made it into the inner circle, but who nevertheless believe in their cause just as fiercely.

They turn in awe when Enjolras and Grantaire appear, and Grantaire really wishes he could just slink back into the shadows of the tunnels. He’s not made for crowds and speeches and rallies, and it’s hard to ignore his instincts of the last five years, the ones that kept him alive by staying as far away from other people as he could.

Enjolras has a smile for each person they pass and a word, a quick murmur of reassurance, an assertion that others will come. The men and women watch him with reverence; making it  clear that they’re drawing strength just from seeing him. Grantaire tries not to think about what will happen, when it’s a decision between their ideals and death.

Enjolras leads him past the make-shift barricade to the outer tunnels, the ones the government already know about. Not much further along they come across a service ladder, the metal rungs bolted tight against the wall. Enjolras goes up first and Grantaire follows him up a beat later, feet slippery on the metal rungs as he searches for purchase. Enjolras holds a hand down to help him up when he reaches the surface, Grantaire holds it for a moment longer than he should, grins when Enjolras’s cheeks flush in response.

“We have to be focused,” Enjolras says. “This is important.”

“I know it is,” Grantaire replies, sobering.

“You’re important too,” Enjolras says firmly. “But not right now, not when we’re—”

“I get it, Enjolras,” Grantaire interrupts, holding his hands up. “Calm down, wow. I didn’t come up here to tease you. I came up here because I’m not letting you go on ahead without me again. I did that once, and I regretted it for five years—”

His next words are lost as Enjolras steps forwards suddenly and kisses him, one hand fisted in the front of his shirt to pull him closer. Grantaire inhales a breath in as his eyes close, and for a few seconds forgets where he is completely. Then Enjolras releases him and Grantaire opens his eyes again, breathing out shakily.

“We’re going to talk about that,” Enjolras says. “And make up for all that lost time. I promise. Now, though, we get through this. Are we on the same page?”

Grantaire, still feeling a little dazed, just nods. This is the problem with Enjolras, he’s starting to remember. He makes Grantaire believe, makes him think that there actually will be a future for them, that they might survive the government coming for them.

Enjolras turns around and strides off; after a beat Grantaire remembers to follow him, shaking his head to get rid of the lingering daze.

They make their way through the city in silence; Enjolras clearly knows where he’s going and it means that Grantaire can focus his attention on their surroundings, to watch for any sign of government forces. They’re already in the centre of what was once Paris, Enjolras doesn’t lead him much further now they’re above ground.

There’s sound in the distance, the noise of crowds. People are restless and calling out for something Grantaire can’t quite make out. With every step Grantaire takes towards them, he feels dread start to grow in his chest, until it’s a writhing, twisting mass he can’t ignore.

He wants to just grab Enjolras’s arm and hold him back but he can’t, not even when they turn a corner and a voice yells, “He’s here!”

The whole square is full of civilians, more than Grantaire’s ever seen together in one place. Around them are the burnt-out remains of old cars, trucks, buildings, shattered pieces of the lifetime before. The crowd had been milling about, not quite sure what to do, but upon seeing Enjolras it gains purpose, becomes a strong, powerful wave of people.

Enjolras strides forwards into the crowd as easily as breathing, people part for him with wide eyes and shocked gasps. For some of them, Grantaire thinks, this is probably the first time they’ve seen the man who leads the resistance. They don’t notice Grantaire trailing behind him, pay little attention to him as he’s careful to keep within arm’s reach of Enjolras.

Enjolras makes his way to one of the cars, jumps up onto trunk then steps up to the hood. The metal creaks under his footsteps. Grantaire’s heart pulls tight.

Enjolras tells the people that they have nothing to fear, that the government’s time is now over. He reassures them at the same time he inspires them to be greater, encourages them to take a stand and be part of the change. Behind him the sun glares in the distance, blindingly hot. Around them the air is thick, heavy and oppressive; there’s no sound at all but a few flies buzzing in the distance, the murmur of the crowd as they listen to what Enjolras has to say.

It’s the calm before the storm.

In the silence, Enjolras’s words catch and hold.

Grantaire has never loved him more than the moment when he gets to see how much Enjolras believes this, how different he is now to the man he knew before. When he had known Enjolras his ideas had been half-formed, rough around the edges, as had Enjolras himself. His temper had flared too often, along with his sense of justice. Now he’s more polished, more tempered, and altogether more inspiring.

But he’s also, Grantaire realises, somehow, more human.

Or rather, now he can see the signs that he’d been too angry to notice before. He recognises the emotion in Enjolras’s tone of voice, the set to his shoulders, the softness at the edge of his expression. Enjolras doesn’t want these people to die and yet he knows that it’s very likely they will.

It’s the same fear Grantaire has always had, but where it in the past made him pull himself away and hide, he sees that for Enjolras, it’s no reason to give up.

So he reaches for Enjolras’s hand.

Their fingertips just brush when there’s a shout from the back of the crowd.

Enjolras’s attention snaps instantly in that direction. Grantaire looks over too, but he has less of a vantage point, being on the crowd. Enjolras obviously sees something he dislikes, as he takes in a sharp breath. Grantaire looks up at him sharply, but the movement is aborted as there’s a loud shout from the back of the crowd, followed by a scream.

Chaos erupts.

Grantaire grabs hold of Enjolras’s wrist and drags him down forcefully from the top of the car as the screams up in tandem, as the crowd surges forwards and starts to break up. “What’s happening?” asks Grantaire, pulling Enjolras down behind the car. “What did you see?”

“It’s the government,” Enjolras replies. “Soldiers are here.”

“That’s good, isn’t it? Isn’t Cosette with them?”

“I couldn’t see her.” Enjolras sounds stunned; it’s clear he hadn’t thought that this would happen. “They weren’t meant to be here yet. We were supposed to—” his next words are lost as the noise of the soldiers and the crowd reaches its peak, the sound of violence spilling over to where they are crouched.

“We have to go,” Grantaire says urgently. “Now. We need to get back.”

Enjolras looks like he wants to argue.

“No,” Grantaire pre-empts him, “If you die here you accomplish nothing. We have to get back, get to the others, and try and get in touch with Cosette.” He’s practically screaming the words at Enjolras to be heard over the noise of the crowd.

He reaches out to take Enjolras’s hand, sees Enjolras close his eyes as he fights with his desire to stay here and help people. Grantaire tugs on his hand, and Enjolras opens his eyes again, then nods at him. Grantaire tightens his grip and pulls Enjolras to his feet after him, uses most of his body to cover Enjolras’s as they run for the cover of the nearest building.

The crowd swarms around them, frightened people trying to run away from the government soldiers.

A body plows into Grantaire’s, sending him stumbling forwards—

There’s a scream, loud, somewhere to his left—

Trampling feet, moving bodies—

Then—

Air, as he breaks through, staggering forwards into a side street, with Enjolras’s hand still in his. Enjolras finally breaks the connection, brushing his palm back over his eyes, agitated. He tugs at the edge of his cowl to straighten it.

“The people—” he starts to say.

“No,” Grantaire cuts across him, “This is not the time or the place. The government is coming, you got the people to stand up, great, but we’re right in the bloody open and you can’t face the soldiers here, not without Cosette. One of them will try and shoot you on sight and there is no way I am letting you die.”

“Some of these people are going to die,” says Enjolras, a last effort.

“It was their choice to be here,” Grantaire replies, stubborn. “And seeing you, it’s convinced them they’re right, it’s the time to rise up, but we have to go.”

Enjolras finally commits himself to leaving, tears himself away from the wall he had started to lean against. He strides away from Grantaire with agitated movements, but they’re quick ones and in the right direction, and so Grantaire can’t quite work up the energy to be mad at him for it right now. He’ll do that later when they’re safe.

Enjolras gets back to the manhole first, disappears down without checking that Grantaire’s following. Grantaire drops down after him, tugging the cover back in place. His feet hit the ground in the tunnel below with a hollow thud. Enjolras is already moving, up ahead, retracing their steps to the inner sanctum.

Enjolras has no words for the other men and women this time, bursts into the training room full of wrath. The air around him seems to crackle with it, on fire; he looks like some sort of pissed-off, avenging angel when he says, “Fuck the fucking government!”

Grantaire enters the room at a more sedate pace, catches Courfeyrac’s eye as he glances over to look at him. Then Courfeyrac’s attention turns back to Enjolras and he says, cautious, “What happened?”

“The fucking government, that’s what happened!” Enjolras yells back at him.

“They shouldn’t have been there, they shouldn’t be here,” Combeferre says, stepping forwards past Courfeyrac to Enjolras. “Was it definitely—”

“Yes, it was definitely them, killing people without giving them a chance!”

“And there was no Cosette? Or Marius?”

“No, there was no fucking Marius or Cosette!” Enjolras bellows, and Grantaire has to step forwards then. He places a hand on the small of Enjolras’s back, smooths it up to rest between his shoulderblades. He can feel the tension all the way through, the anger rippling in Enjolras’s muscles. It’s a dangerous move; half of Grantaire expects Enjolras to hit him.

Instead, Enjolras takes in a deep breath, and seems to steel himself. “Sorry,” he says to Combeferre and Courfeyrac. “But if you’d seen what they were doing…”

“It’s fine,” says Courfeyrac. He’s frowning. “Did you manage to speak to the people first? Say what we wanted?”

“Yes,” Enjolras replies. “I spoke to them for a short while, I think I got through to them, got them to do what we wanted, to stand up. But then the soldiers appeared and the crowd dispersed, and you know what it’s like, fear could make them think twice.”

Grantaire feels Enjolras lean back into his hand, searching for reassurance. He itches to do more than just touch him, wants to be able to say something to make him feel better about the situation. But what could Enjolras possibly want to hear from him? What would he know about people standing up for what they believe in?

“Where’s Marius and Cosette?” Courfeyrac demands, a rhetorical question of his own. It’s clear he thought they would both be back by now.

Before anyone has a chance to say anything else, Feuilly comes running through from the opposite tunnel to the one Grantaire and Enjolras had entered from. He’s out of breath but it doesn’t stop him from forcing the words out, even as he bends over with his hands on his legs to catch his breath. “They’re here. In the tunnels. The second layer.”

Enjolras’s body disappears from Grantaire’s hand, Grantaire lowers it slowly to his side. The Amis have all jumped to attention around him, grabbing and checking their weapons and preparing themselves for the worst. Grantaire finds himself standing there just watching them, realises there’s a part of him that just wants a drink. He wants to lose himself to oblivion, anything but face the death of his friends that he knows is coming.

The next few minutes are a blur; it’s Courfeyrac who realises that he’s not quite with it, appears as a firm presence at his side, grabbing Grantaire’s arm and guiding him towards one of the tunnels. “Come on,” he says. “We need to help.”

Grantaire follows along with him until he realises Enjolras is nowhere in sight, blinks and draws himself out of his stupor to say, “Wait—”

“He’s fine,” Courfeyrac assures him. “Trust me. He’s in the safest place. But right now we need to deal with this.”

Courfeyrac has his baseball bat slung over one shoulder, he’s slipped into that deadly version of himself. Just looking at him brings sense back to Grantaire, makes him realise where he is and what’s at stake. He pulls his sword out and holds it in his hand, ready, regains his footing and takes more purposeful steps after Courfeyrac.

They arrive at another barricade, not too different from the one he and Enjolras had passed. He and Courfeyrac walk straight through it, heading towards what Grantaire now realises is the sound of battle. It’s exactly like what he heard above ground but muffled and dampened by the place they’re in, sound echoing back and layering over the top of itself.

It’s disorientating and terrifying. Grantaire doesn’t quite know what to expect.

The fighting finds them.

The blow hits Grantaire over the back of his head, hard enough that he sees stars as everything goes black. He staggers forwards and his legs almost buckle. When he regains sense and balance to turn around it’s to see Courfeyrac standing over a dead body. There’s something red and glistening smeared along his baseball bat.

Grantaire’s stomach shifts. “You alright?” asks Courfeyrac.

He doesn’t get time to reply, as they’re both swept up into the battle. Joly and Bahorel apparently went on ahead of them, Grantaire sees them amidst the fighting for brief moments. He’s too busy with trying to keep himself alive to notice much more than that, his whole world narrowing down to one movement then the next.

They’re not alone in the tunnel, Grantaire sees government soldiers and other supporters of the Amis, people he’s seen before but never put a name to. They’re fighting as hard as the Amis themselves, determined not to back down. On the floor there are already some dead bodies.

They’re facing only a small force of government soldiers, not as many as Grantaire had seen above ground. He wonders if maybe these soldiers got lucky when they found them, doubting that this is the force Gillenormand will actually send to root them out.

“Where the fuck is Marius,” Grantaire hears Courfeyrac mutter, fighting by his side at one point. “We can’t take on the whole army alone.”

They’re finally starting to get the upper-hand, more soldiers than supporters dead on the floor. Grantaire’s chest is heaving with the lack of breath, and his muscles ache. It’s probably only the adrenaline that’s keeping him standing, his movements are almost automatic by this point. He’s just pulling his sword out of a soldier’s chest when he hears a voice he never expected, and his blood runs cold.

“Grantaire!”

The call comes from one side of the tunnel. The three remaining soldiers stand grouped up together. The one in the centre, a woman, holds a struggling figure in her grip.

An extremely _familiar_ struggling figure.

“Grantaire!” Gavroche yells again, “Grantaire!”

“Let us go,” the female soldier holding him says, ignoring Gavroche’s shouting. She just tightens the arm she has over his chest, making him take in a stuttered breath. “Let the three of us back out of here and we’ll let the kid live.”

“Fuck that,” Bahorel says instantly, not too far from where Grantaire stands. “You started this, you burst in here and started killing people, give us one good reason why we shouldn’t kill you.”

“Because I’ll cut out this kid’s insides before you reach me,” the woman says. The hand on her arm not restraining Gavroche holds a knife, it glints in the darkness as she presses it to Gavroche’s side.

Grantaire hisses in a sharp breath before he can stop himself, eyes widening, immediately showing how much he cares. The woman grins at him smugly.

Why is Gavroche _here?_ He was _supposed_ to be safe, he was supposed to be at the Musain with Éponine and the other orphans. Grantaire tries frantically to think of some way to kill her before she kills Gavroche, tries to work out in his head something he knows isn’t possible.

Gavroche swears and struggles in her grip, fighting to try and get free. To her side the two other soldiers begin to edge back.

“Grantaire!” yells Gavroche, still struggling, “Don’t!”

Gavroche’s struggling is getting more pronounced. It looks like he’s starting to panic. Grantaire takes a step towards him out of instinct, then freezes when Gavroche’s eyes meet his. They’re perfectly lucid and clear, and his mouth is a grim set of determination when he slams his head back into the woman’s nose.

She swears violently and releases her grip on Gavroche’s body. Grantaire darts forwards to catch Gavroche as he breaks free, shouts out, “No!” when the woman’s arm slashes up and cuts through Gavroche’s skin.

Gavroche topples forwards into his arms, heavy, and Grantaire almost staggers under the weight. He can smell the coppery tang of blood already, knocking him sick. He doesn’t wait to see happens to the soldiers, just grabs Gavroche and drags him back down the tunnel to the training room.

It takes too long for Grantaire to get him there. He’s having flashbacks, to the time when he’d been practically carrying Marius after he’d been stabbed, and it had been all his fault for not keeping Marius safe. He should have kept Gavroche safe, too, and he failed. Enjolras and the others are in the training room, and look up sharply when Grantaire stumbles through. Enjolras’s eyes widen in alarm when he sees Gavroche, dropping what he’s doing immediately to come over.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” says Grantaire, lowering Gavroche onto the floor of the training room. The blood spreads out from the wound across his arm, and Grantaire presses down hard on it with his hands to put pressure on it. Enjolras’s knees hit the floor next to him, his hands pulling Gavroche’s shirt up his arm to bare the wound.

Combeferre is there with them in seconds, some of the medical supplies they’d kept with him. “What happened?” he asks.

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” Gavroche protests, wrestling to try and get away from Grantaire as he holds him in place. “Would you just _listen_ —”

“One of the bastards knifed him,” Grantaire snarls. “Tried to use Gavroche as bait before he broke her nose—”

Gavroche beams for a few seconds, “Damn straight I did.”

“—It’s not too bad, is it?” Grantaire continues, “Gavroche, will you just fucking hold _still_ —”

He’s having flashbacks to what happened with Marius again, of the injury that had nearly killed him and sent them both to the Amis. He’s so caught up in that time that he doesn’t register Combeferre sitting back, relieved, not until Enjolras’s voice says, “Grantaire, I think he’s going to be okay.”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to say!” Gavroche yells, squirming away from Grantaire’s grip. There’s still blood on his arm but it’s started to dry, Grantaire can see now that it was just a flesh wound. “And it’s also not what I came here to say!”

“Why are you here?” Grantaire demands, latching on to the thing he had been annoyed about before thinking that Gavroche was going to die. “I sent you to the Musain to be safe.”

“I don’t want to be safe,” Gavroche replies. “I want to make a difference and - will you stop distracting me? There’s a reason I came here, it’s important.” He drags his arm down impatiently back over his arm, bouncing from one foot to the other in his impatience. “It’s Marius. He’s trying to get through, and that girl, you know the one - she’s with him!”

Grantaire’s eyes widen, he hears Enjolras take in a breath at his side. “Are you sure?” Enjolras asks.

“Definitely,” replies Gavroche. “I saw them. They’re coming. I ran on ahead to tell you!”

“Did they have anyone with them?” asks Enjolras, “Soldiers? Civilians?”

“I don’t know,” answers Gavroche, frowning. “I wasn’t looking for any of them. I just saw Marius and couldn’t work out why he wasn’t with you, but he was heading in this direction and he saw me. He said I had to tell you and...” He shrugs, waving a hand in the air as if to say, _and that’s that._

“So you were going to come here even before you saw Marius?” asks Grantaire, scowling. He’s vaguely aware of Enjolras and Combeferre moving away to talk to Feuilly, Bahorel and Courfeyrac as they return to the room. Grantaire’s attention, however, stays focused on a rather stubborn-looking Gavroche.

A Gavroche who should be back in the Musain and safe.

“You can’t just leave me out of this,” says Gavroche. “I’m part of it, I have been part of it. I want to be part of it until the end.”

“Does your sister know you’re here?” Grantaire counters. “What if something happens to you? Fuck, something almost _did._ ”

“But it _didn’t.”_

Grantaire wants to throttle him.

“I’m fine, Grantaire!” Gavroche says hotly. “I can make my own choices! I always have! I did it with the tracker and I’m doing it now. I have to make up for that, I have to be here to deal with the fallout. I’m not a little kid any more, I can make my own decisions.”

Grantaire still wants to throttle him, but he’s also, he realises with something close to despair, starting to understand where Gavroche is coming from. He just wants to help, not seeing that he’s putting his own life on the line as a result.

Is this how Enjolras felt, seeing Grantaire doing dangerous things to save others?

He sighs, and brushes a hand over his eyes, counting to ten. When he pulls his hand away Gavroche is still looking stubbornly up at him, his bottom lip sulky. “Fine,” Grantaire says. “But you don’t go looking for trouble, you stay back, with me. And if anyone comes close you yell my name, okay?”

Gavroche nods, leaning further forwards towards him eagerly. “I can do that. I will. You can trust me.”

“I hope so,” replies Grantaire, and gets to his feet. Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras are in deep discussion, talking about Marius and Cosette, no doubt. Bahorel’s having his arm looked at and bandaged by Joly, who has a huge bruise already blooming across one cheek. It’s hard to believe they made it out of the fight in the tunnels alive.

Gavroche scrambles up to stand next to him, scratching absently at the dried blood on his arm, the wound no longer bleeding profusely. It’s going to leave a mark Éponine will kill Grantaire for later.

Assuming he and Gavroche get out of this alive.

\- - - - -

The fighting starts in earnest over an hour later, shouts and cries echoing to them from the tunnels. With still no word still from Marius and Cosette, Enjolras makes the Amis hold themselves back, stops them from going to the barricades in the two tunnels back to the surface.

“Not until we know,” he says.

Their first line of defence falls not long after, useless in the face of a concentrated government force. It’s obvious, now, that this is Gillenormand’s real army, the ones sent in to get rid of the resistance once and for all. The whole sewer system is filled up with soldiers; Jehan reports that even their emergency escape route has been taken. There’s nothing left for them but to face what is coming.

Enjolras makes the decision then, says that they can’t wait for Marius and Cosette any longer. Some of the people have come to join them, like they said they would, but Grantaire can tell that it’s not as many as Enjolras thought, as many as he _hoped._

The others all say their goodbyes first, disappear into the tunnels to join the battle. Grantaire makes Gavroche wait at the entrance to one, then turns to face Enjolras in the empty training room, the last remaining sanctuary in the headquarters he built to take on an oppressive regime.

The sound of the fighting is muffled, in here, like they’re underwater rather than underground. The distance between them is more than an arms length, but it feels so much closer than they’ve been in a long, long time.

Enjolras is dressed exactly as he was the first time Grantaire saw him again, pissed off and angry about Marius. The black outfit fits him as well as it does, the weapons strapped to his body say that he means business. At the time Enjolras had been absolutely furious; now he looks at Grantaire with something like sadness around the edge of his eyes.

“Don’t,” says Grantaire, when Enjolras opens his mouth. “Don’t say goodbye.”

Enjolras closes it again and frowns.

“I don’t care if it is,” Grantaire continues. “Or want you to apologise for dragging me to my death. I chose this, I chose _you,_ and if we die, we die. But I’m not saying goodbye to you again.”

Enjolras’s expression softens slightly. He closes the distance between them to curl his hands around Grantaire’s neck. His thumb brushes against Grantaire’s pulse point, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.

“We’re not going to die,” says Enjolras, and Grantaire has to choke out a laugh. “I mean it.”

“I know you do,” Grantaire replies, fisting a hand in the front of Enjolras’s shirt to pull him closer, “And I still think you’re wrong. But as usual - and as I have always done - I hope you’re going to prove me wrong and that you’re right.”

Because in the end that’s what it comes down to: Grantaire has never believed in anything, except for Enjolras.

Enjolras kisses him like he’s saying goodbye, like this is the last chance he might ever get to. His body says what his idealism and his determination never will; that he’s scared and afraid and doesn’t know if they’re going to make it out alive. Grantaire kisses him back with everything he has, tries to show Enjolras that he’ll always be with him.

The kiss ends quickly, too soon. Enjolras’s expression is full of regret as he pulls away. “We have to go,” he says, “We can’t stay here forever.” But oh, how Grantaire wishes they could.

Instead, Grantaire nods, steps away and checks on his weapons again. Enjolras looks to him one last time, then strides forwards down the tunnel into the battle. Gavroche joins them as they walk through, Grantaire just a step behind Enjolras as always.

The scene they walk into is carnage, soldiers and civilians and supporters alike. Grantaire can’t see any of the Amis, but then he doesn’t really get chance to when there’s a battle to be fought. He can’t tell who’s on the winning side in the confusion and chaos, can’t discern much at all, his attention focused down to Enjolras, and making sure that he’s safe in the battle.

Enjolras is vicious like this, and more than a little terrifying. When he’d been training with Grantaire it had only been part of what he was capable of. Now, he slices his way through soldiers as easily as breathing, doesn’t even blink when they cry out for mercy. Grantaire follows along in his wake, dissuading those who look to stab Enjolras in the back whilst he’s fighting someone else, so he doesn’t notice when Enjolras freezes in his step.

Not until Enjolras says, loud and clear over the fighting, “You.”

Grantaire’s head whips around to see who he is fighting, feels his heart violently constrict itself in his chest when he sees.

Gillenormand himself stands at the centre of the room, dressed for battle. He clearly wanted to spearhead this mission himself, wanted to be sure that the revolution was wiped out entirely. Upon seeing Enjolras, Gillenormand’s eyes widen and then gleam; he shoves another soldier forcefully out of his way to get to Enjolras.

“I don’t want to fight you,” Enjolras says, standing his ground. “We don’t have to fight.”

“Is that pleading? You sound like you’re pleading,” Gillenormand replies, drawing a gun and pointing it straight at Enjolras’s chest.

“It’s rationality,” Enjolras replies, through clenched teeth. “What I want would be easier if you cooperate with us. We don’t want to fight.”

Gillenormand actually laughs. There’s a manic sort of look to his expression. Grantaire had heard stories, passed around at the Musain and then from Marius himself, once it all came out, but he’d never quite thought the leader of the government was this far gone, this pushed to extremes by the height of his own power.

“Then put down your weapons,” says Gillenormand, “And we’ll talk.”

It’s obvious he’s not going to put his own weapons away, clear to everyone that he just wants to strip Enjolras of everything before killing him. Grantaire’s heart is so tight he can’t breathe, his hand clenches so tightly around the hilt of the sword his knuckles are white. He wants to leap across the distance and kill Gillenormand himself, wants to tear the gun straight out of his hands and kill him with it— but something stops him.

Enjolras begins taking out his weapons, drops them one after another onto the floor. Around them the battle still continues like nothing is happening, everyone’s too focused on keeping themselves alive to even realise.

“Are you fucking serious?” Grantaire demands, taking a step forwards.

Enjolras’s voice is like whiplash, tight and controlled as he says, “No.” It’s a command, not a request, Grantaire freezes in place a step behind him, watching as Enjolras continues to takes his own weapons away.

Gillenormand’s eyes actually light up. He looks for a second at Grantaire with smug satisfaction. “And here he is,” says Gillenormand. “The famed leader of the Amis, submitting to me because he knows that his cause is lost.”

“Our cause will never be lost,” Enjolras says, dropping the last of his weapons onto the floor. “There will always be more. The people joined us this time, they will join us again, there will always be someone who will want to topple you. Let it go, Gillenormand, you’ve lost control of the city. Fear no longer works, it can’t beat hope.”

“Hope?” spits Gillenormand. “Hope? I’ll show you hope. I’ll murder every last one of you and parade your bodies through the streets so everyone knows what happens to those who try to defy me.” His hand actually shakes with the fervour of his words, Grantaire watches the finger over the trigger of the gun carefully.

“You’ve already lost,” says Enjolras. “It’s too late.”

Gillenormand’s finger tightens on the trigger.

Grantaire throws himself forwards in front of Enjolras.

An arrow appears out of nowhere.

It sinks into the flesh of Gillenormand’s shoulder, the point appears again through the front of his body.

The gun goes off.

And then, pain.

It screams all the way through Grantaire’s body, bright, sharp and cruel. It’s worse than anything he’s ever felt before, even when he got the scar on his neck. His whole body collapses underneath him to the floor. The pain is worse when he hits the concrete, his whole body jarring with the impact.

There’s a voice at his side, familiar, young, saying, “Grantaire! Grantaire, no, Grantaire!” a teenager’s voice, desperate and broken.

Grantaire looks up through the haze of the pain and there’s a girl standing not too far from him, blonde and beautiful. At her side is a younger man with freckles, who looks familiar, but Grantaire’s slipping mind won’t let him work out who it is. The two people have Gillenormand, and Enjolras is - Enjolras is - Grantaire can’t see Enjolras.

He can hear movement all around him, footsteps, the blur of new bodies, new people. Confused shouting. It’s loud, loud, far too loud.

Gavroche’s hands press against his body, slippery with blood. “Why are you bleeding?” Grantaire asks Gavroche through a wave of nausea. “Are you hurt? Éponine will never - Ep will -” he trails off.

There’s a fuzziness at the edge of his vision, black and cloudy as it seeps in to cover everything. He can’t feel his fingertips, he’s going into shock. Where’s Enjolras?

“Enjolras?” Grantaire asks.

And everything goes black.


	7. Epilogue

_“—to the latest broadcast of les amis de l'abc, brought to you from the centre of Paris. As you have no doubt heard, our headquarters are gone, and what remains is rubble. We advise people to stay as far away from the sewers as they possibly can in the following weeks for your own safety. The Musain has opened its doors, to those who have nowhere else to go._

_President Gillenormand has stepped down from office, relinquishing all hold over the city and its' law enforcement. The people have triumphed, and the city is ours. However, we advise all people to keep their weapons close, and to not venture out without reason. There are still those who would resist us, who seek to make a statement using innocent people. Stay away from lone government soldiers at all costs_ ____—”_ _ _ _

_\- - - - -_

Grantaire wakes up to a whole fucking _lot_ of pain.

“Am I dead?” he asks, only his voice doesn’t work, and the words kind of mumble together. His voice rasps and his throat his dry and his whole body feels like it’s been torn apart then put back together.

He opens his eyes slowly, blinking up at a bright, white ceiling. There are strip lights overhead, dimmed and flickering slightly, and Grantaire knows instantly he’s not in the sewers.

Panic seizes his chest and he tries to sit up. A firm hand comes to rest on his chest, pushing him back down easily as a voice says, “Easy, now. No sudden movements.”

“Fuck you,” Grantaire tries to reply, but it kind of comes out as just a grumble instead.

Joly arches an eyebrow at him.

It takes Grantaire’s cotton wool mind a moment to really process what he’s seeing, and then his eyes widen. “Joly?” he asks, and this time he’s actually able to pronounce syllables, though his voice still rasps in his throat. “You’re - where are we? Where are the others? Enjolras—”

“They’re all fine, you’re fine, we’re safe,” Joly says, removing the hand from his chest. “We’re in a hospital in the city. An actual hospital, can you believe it? I have so many supplies, so much _equipment_.”

Grantaire blinks and frowns and doesn’t understand a single word that he said.

“But the government,” tries Grantaire, “The sewers.”

“The sewers are gone,” Joly replies, and his eyes are sad. “Or at least, our headquarters are. Gillenormand’s soldiers saw to that when they came for us. There’s nothing but the old structure left.”

“And the government?” Grantaire presses.

“Gillenormand’s in Haxo,” Joly says carefully, like he’s choosing his words. “He’s going to be put on trial for his crimes. But the government’s not gone completely. We’re working with — look,” he stops himself on a sigh, “I don’t think we should be talking about this. Not right now. How are you feeling?”

He reaches out a hand to place it on Grantaire’s forehead, palm cool against his fevered skin.

The question serves to make Grantaire’s body remind him just how much pain it actually is in, screaming at him for everything he put it through. Everything aches, but the worst thing is a pain in his chest, skin pulling tight every time that he breathes.

“You got shot,” Joly says. “Do you remember?”

It all comes back to him on a rush, the pain and the fear and how he’d lost consciousness after. He remembers the battle, remembers trying to protect Enjolras, remembers Gillenormand finding them and pointing a gun and — He sits up sharply, even as he hisses in a sharp breath through his teeth when his body protests the movement. “Where’s Enjolras? Is he alive?”

“Jesus Christ,” Joly says, pushing him down again with a firm hand on his shoulder. “Stop trying to tear out your fucking stitches.”

“Enjolras—”

“He’s _fine_ ,” Joly snaps, “Now will you just lie down?”

This time, Grantaire lets himself be manhandled, giving in to the aches and pains that wreak havoc across his body. He has no idea how long he’s been out, but the way his muscles are refusing to do what he wants, implies that it’s been quite a while.

As Joly checks him over, he looks around the room, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. It’s a typical hospital room, salvaged from the time before. There are three beds, but only his own is occupied. The cupboards on the walls are patched together, haphazard, it’s clear that at some point the whole place was ransacked for supplies, and yet it’s miles better than what they had underground.

There’s a window at the opposite end of the room, a long crack splitting it down across the middle. Through the fractures spidering out Grantaire can see the splintered world beyond, what is ostensibly the city of Paris, bathed in the soft pink glow of early evening.

It’s unsettling, to think that they’re in the centre of the city. That they can be here, and soldiers aren’t coming to kill them. That something has shifted so dramatically it’s suddenly okay for them to be out in the light again.

Joly doesn’t say much else beyond asking him to move different parts of his body, checking the pulse in his wrist and the way his eyes react to bright light. Grantaire’s glad, he’s not sure he can muster up the energy to speak now; he’s exhausted, and his throat feels as raw as sandpaper.

The day bleeds into night, and Grantaire lets unconsciousness claim him once more.

\- - - - -

The next day he wakes with a start, one of his arms coming out to hit an unseen enemy. His hand hits the cabinet at the side of his bed and he swears, blinking himself awake, to see Combeferre looking down at him, amused. At least, Grantaire thinks he’s amused, he’s not sure what to think, of a Combeferre who’s looking down at him and not glaring.

“You have visitors,” he says, and there’s an actual stethoscope around his neck, what the hell.

In fact, Combeferre isn’t even wearing the black of the usual Ami gear. He still has his black trousers, and the weapons belt is still fully-stocked, but he’s wearing a shirt, buttoned to the neck, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks altogether far more human, and Grantaire has no idea what to say.

Combeferre must take his silence as an invitation, because he walks over to the door to open it.

“You’re alive!” Gavroche announces his presence, bursting suddenly into the room with no grace whatsoever. He takes no notice of Combeferre at all, just flings himself across the hospital bed and over Grantaire, who’s barely coordinated enough to hug him back.

Over Gavroche’s shoulder Grantaire can see Marius, hovering nervously at the end of his bed. Just to the side of him stands a blonde girl, Cosette, and with them is someone Grantaire never expected to see at all.

“Éponine,” Grantaire says, and she smiles.

Seconds later when they’re all in the room and crowded around the bed, she’s smacking him on the arm and saying, “You were supposed to be keeping Gavroche and Marius safe, you dick, not getting yourself _killed_.”

“I thought you were _dead_ ,” Gavroche says into Grantaire’s shoulder, refusing to let go of him as he holds tight.

“You came close,” Combeferre says helpfully, which makes Grantaire throw him a glare. Combeferre just shrugs back and says, “If we didn’t have Cosette’s soldiers, we wouldn’t have been able to save you. They were able to get you to the hospital in time, to equipment we could actually use. For a moment it looked like we wouldn’t make it.”

Grantaire smooths a hand down Gavroche’s back and tries to process the overload of information. The last thing he remembers is jumping in front of Enjolras to save him from Gillenormand’s bullet. Cosette and Marius must have arrived after.

“You have crap timing,” Grantaire tells Marius.

Marius blinks and then blushes. “Sorry,” he says genuinely. “We came as fast as we could.”

“How long have I been out?” Grantaire asks Combeferre.

“A few days, give or take. You’ve been in and out of consciousness. These lot have been visiting you regularly,” Combeferre says, with a put-upon sigh that implies Gavroche and Marius have been getting in the way, even as the little smile at the corner of his mouth says he’s liked them being there.

This is weird, Combeferre being sociable. He needs to stop it, Grantaire thinks. He’s not prepared for this.

“You know, in between changing world order,” Cosette says.

It’s the first thing she’s said since coming into the room. Grantaire glances across at her curiously. She’s no longer wearing the government-issue soldier uniform, but something more suited to her figure, the colours brighter. Marius stands at her side, closer than just friends, Éponine pointedly isn’t looking at either of them.

Cosette smiles when she catches Grantaire’s eye and says, “It’s good to see you without weapons between us, Grantaire.”

“Same,” he replies, and smiles back.

They catch him up then on what’s been happening, filling him in on everything he missed whilst he was out. Cosette and Marius had arrived in the sewers with the promised support; they’d been so long because they’d been converting and detaining other government soldiers on their way. By the time they reached the Amis, they had no enemies left behind them.

It hadn’t been their intention to harm Gillenormand, but seeing him with a gun pointed to Enjolas had prompted Cosette into action. She’d shot him with an arrow to debilitate him, only Gillenormand had fired his gun as a consequence. Cosette apologises to Grantaire for this with genuine regret; Grantaire shrugs and points out that he was the one who jumped in front of the bullet.

“The fighting isn't over,” says Combeferre, he looks tired. He takes his glasses off with one hand to rub the bridge of his nose. “Gillenormand still wouldn't listen to us, even with Cosette and Marius's reinforcements. So we had to remove him - and some of his soldiers.”

Grantaire nods, trying to keep up. He wants to ask more, wants to know how they managed to get out of the sewers with his unconscious body, but his thoughts aren't letting him focus. It's an overload of information, all at once, and he never quite knew everything the Amis were planning. Eventually, his attention starts to wander, his eyes feel heavy and he finds it hard to concentrate. Seeing this, Combeferre advises the others to leave him for a bit, to let him sleep and recuperate, and thankfully they do just that. Gavroche is the last one to leave the room, his grin is the last thing Grantaire sees before he falls back to sleep.

\- - - - -

_“—anyone interested in rebuilding the government, who has an opinion and would like to share it, we would like to speak to. You know where to find us. Our supporters will be out on the streets, talking to anyone who has a voice. You are important to us, and we wish to create a new world suitable for all._

_President Gillenormand's trial will take place next week._

_Supplies will be handed out to anyone who needs them, from _ _ _—”____

_\- - - - -_

When Grantaire wakes up the next time the room is darker and the lights overhead have been turned off. The curtains are drawn at the window, but there’s a faint glow from a candle on the bedside cabinet.

Next to the cabinet sits Enjolras, in a visitor’s chair that’s definitely seen better days. His body is slouched down and curved to one side, and he has one hand resting on the bed next to where Grantaire’s own lies, the tips of their fingers just brushing.

Grantaire smiles and shifts his body enough to reach out, the pains of before now just dull aches in his chest. He curls his fingers into Enjolras’s, sliding them together, and Enjolras squeezes his hand back.

Enjolras’s mind catches up to his body a second later, his eyes snapping open and his whole body jerking in the chair.

“Hello,” says Grantaire.

“I fucking hate you,” Enjolras replies, and surges forwards across the hospital bed to kiss him.

The angle is awkward and Grantaire’s lips must be chapped and dry, but Enjolras doesn’t seem to care. He kisses Grantaire firmly and surely, then leans back enough so that he can glare at him. “Never do that again.”

“Wasn’t planning on it,” Grantaire replies, a little breathless.

“Good,” says Enjolras, and shifts back slightly to give him some more room. He doesn’t let go of his hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got churned up and spat out by a blender,” Grantaire replies. “Everything hurts.”

“You got shot.”

“I know, Joly told me about—”

“You got fucking _shot,_ Grantaire! In the middle of a battle when there were no medical supplies around and you could have _died_ and I thought for a second that you _had_ and you were out for days and _never do that again_.”

Enjolras looks completely terrified, like seeing Grantaire get hurt has made him finally realise the severity of death. Good, Grantaire thinks, maybe this will stop Enjolras from trying his own brand of heroics. “Like you can talk,” he replies. “You were the one who started _taking off your weapons_.”

“It was all part of my plan.”

“Plan? What plan? To get shot and killed by a madman?”

“And, what, jumping in front of a bullet is a much more sane thing to do?”

“I never said that!”

“You could have _died_!”

Grantaire wants to throw his arms up in frustration. Instead he settles for glaring at Enjolras as forcefully as he can. “If I were well enough right now, I’d shake you until you start to see sense,” he says darkly.

There’s a twitch of a smile at the corner of Enjolras’s lips. “I’d do the same if you weren’t lying injured in a hospital bed.”

“Good,” Grantaire replies.

“Fine.”

Grantaire buckles first: he smiles. He lifts his free hand to brush Enjolras’s hair away from his eyes. He looks tired and worn-out, exhausted no doubt from the battle and the political discussions that have been happening after. He smooths his fingertips across Enjolras’s brow, hoping to smooth out the lines that are there as he goes.

Enjolras’s expression begins to soften and he says, “We’re not very good at talking to each other, are we?”

“No,” Grantaire agrees, watching his fingers as he traces them down along the side of Enjolras’s face. “We got out of the habit of that over the last few years.”

“I want to fix it,” says Enjolras, firm. “I want to go back to how we used to be.”

Grantaire reaches Enjolras’s chin and pulls his hand away, drops it to rest in his lap with his hand clenched. “I don’t.”

Enjolras’s eyes widen. “Oh.”

“We weren’t good before,” Grantaire says, looking down at his hand where it rests in his lap. “You were distracted and I was holding myself back, and neither of us really said what we felt. It was good, don’t get me wrong, but it wasn’t… I don’t want that. Not again.”

“Oh,” says Enjolras. He starts to pull his hand away from Grantaire’s grip, Grantaire lets him. “Well, if that’s what you want, we don’t have to. We can just… be friends, or whatever.”

“What the fuck.” Grantaire stares at him. “What the - what the fuck?”

“What?” Enjolras asks. “That’s what you said, isn’t it?”

“What the fuck _no_ , of course not. Oh, my God. I meant I didn’t want to go back to that, I want something different. Christ, this is _exactly_ my point, we don’t know how to talk to each other any more. I don’t want to recreate a flawed relationship, I want a _better_ one. I want to know what you did when I wasn’t here, I want to know all the things that have changed about you, I want to learn how to love you.”

“I thought you already did,” says Enjolras, and he’s clearly thinking back to that night when they’d been together, what they’d both said in the heat of the movement.

“I do,” Grantaire replies, “I always will. But you’ve changed, Enjolras, and so have I. We can’t just pretend that everything’s fixed between us now that we’re together. There’s so much we still need to talk about, that we need to work on. I mean, fuck, you’re working _for_ the government now, that’s a huge change. And I’m, well, I want to be here, I want to help too. Only I’ve spent years trying to keep myself away from people and I’ve clearly got some sort of death-wish and keep putting other people’s lives above my own—”

Enjolras cuts him off with a kiss, soft and sweet. “Yes,” he says, “To all of it. I agree. I want it too. We’ve got years to make up for, time lost to catch up. I want to know about the Musain, and Éponine and Gavroche and how you met Marius.”

Grantaire nods, and feels a weight lift off of his chest, one he hadn’t even realised was there. He’s not going to kid himself, he knows that things are not perfect between him and Enjolras. He knows that it will take work for them to be able to be with each other again. It won’t be easy. But then, nothing will, not in a world where everything has shifted and is being rebuilt from the ground up. 

But right now he’s tired and just wants to go back to sleep. He shifts across the bed and tugs on Enjolras’s hand until he gets the point, laughs quietly at the surprise in Enjolras’s eyes even as he gets the hint and climbs into the bed next to him. It takes some rearranging to get into a position that fits. The bed was obviously meant for one, and pretty much every position hurts Grantaire’s still-healing body.

Somehow, they find a way to fit, Grantaire curled up on his side with his legs tangled with Enjolras’s. Enjolras wraps an arm around his waist to hold him close, and Grantaire tucks his head under Enjolras’s chin.

He falls asleep to the sound of Enjolras’s heartbeat.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed the ride. 
> 
> As always, you can find me on tumblr [here](http://tell-themstories.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> To see all the art together in one post, click [here](http://jaimesstump.tumblr.com/post/100940275576/grantaires-life-goes-to-hell-at-5pm-on-a-saturday), and to listen to a fanmix for this story, click [here](http://aarontveyt.tumblr.com/post/108338961143/fanmix-for-after-the-end-by-tell-themstories)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] After the End](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3258971) by [wildwildwoods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildwildwoods/pseuds/wildwildwoods)




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